The Invincible Whitley Schnee
by Nacoma23
Summary: Whitley Schnee wanted respect, which is why he sought the family fortune. He lived only for himself, and never for others. A fatal trip to Anima changes everything. Trapped on the edge of an endless game, his teenaged life will never be the same. With armor of high-tech ammunition, he will fight the corruption of the world, and learn what it means to be a hero. He is Iron Man.
1. The Boy Who Has Everything and Nothing

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **This chapter is dedicated to Stan Lee, who taught us that heroes can come from even the most unlikely of places. You'll always be the man, Stan. Excelsior!**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter 1: The Boy Who Has Everything and Nothing**

* * *

 **Atlas, April 23** **rd** **, 2008 KC (Kingdom Calendar)**

 **5:00 PM**

The city of Atlas is known for many things. Even before being established as the kingdom's capital, the city already served as host to many corporations and institutions. In the center of the city stood Atlas Academy, formerly known as Alsius, the military's nerve center and school for prospective specialists. Then there was the financial district, where the global headquarters of organizations like the Schnee Dust Company and Hammer Industries call home. But in the northern part of the city, there stood another institution that was equally as important: The Atlas Technology Institute, the kingdom's premier research university, and the place where the greatest minds in Remnant would go if they wanted to find their future, all the while advancing the sciences and technology of the world to newer heights.

To put it symbolically; if Atlas were a body, its Academy would be its heart, the financial district were the veins through which precious blood was pumped, and ATI was the brain that endlessly thought up how the body would function and improve itself. But if you asked certain people, they would say that the academy or the businesses were all of the above. Time has not been kind to the reputation of ATI, as more attention was devoted to training the future defenders of Atlas or building up the companies that keep the kingdom's economy running.

The university itself was big, not as vast as Atlas Academy, but it still maintained a great presence within the kingdom. What many found interesting about the campus was its design that they have described as a literal record of Atlesian progress. There were labs and lectures halls built before the Great War, designed with a brick-layered architecture. Further extensions to the campus had structures that were designed and built according to the stylistic aesthetic of the era they were built, utilizing the latest construction methods and technologies available at the time. Yes, a day on this campus is always guaranteed to be amazing. But today is special.

It is Graduation Day at the Atlas Technology Institute.

The ceremony was being held at the Nicholas Schnee Memorial Stadium. The decision to hold the ceremony there was made on account of the clear weather. Indeed, there was nary a cloud in sight, offering an unobstructed view of the clear blue sky. Such a sight is rare in Atlas, as the kingdom was infamous for its near-endless snowstorms.

Though it wasn't snowing, the stadium's field still had vast patches of white. Dressed in their pristine white graduation gowns, hundreds of students sat in meticulously organized rows of chairs before a grand stage, where their various professors sat. These students are nervous and excited, and it showed on their faces, and they could be seen on the very large Wombotron screen. Sitting high in the stadium's stands are the relatives and friends of these students, chatting idly amongst each other as they wait for the ceremony to begin. These people come from various backgrounds, from simple Dust miners to senior executives of the Schnee Dust Company. They were all different, yet share a common interest: to celebrate the rise of the next generation of Atlas' elite.

Among this sea of respectful spectators sat a middle-aged redheaded woman dressed in an immaculately pressed violet business suit. Despite her age, she still looks to be in her early thirties, the result of keeping herself in shape through strenuous exercise. She is unique in that she was sitting in a reserved section, one that was set aside for a group of people connected to one of the most influential businessmen in all of Remnant, Jacques Schnee. This woman is Pepper Potts, Jacques Schnee's personal assistant.

Despite her low-tier status, she actually held some considerable influence in the company. This influence extends before working as the assistant to the current head of the SDC; she was once a rising star in the company during the reign of its founder, Nicholas Schnee. For a time, many believed that she had a future as a board member, maybe even as Nick's successor later in her life. It helped that she was a close friend of the man's daughter, Willow. Instead, she became an overpaid secretary to the current CEO, Jacques Schnee, who had been her biggest rival at the time.

When people ask her what duties her position entails, she would tell them the following: She filed reports, answered scroll calls, organized meetings, occasionally took out the garbage, and always ensured that the man's clients were on the level. Those are her _official_ duties. Unofficially, she is essentially an unpaid babysitter to the man's only son, Whitley (not that she minded, considering she is Godmother to all of Willow's children). Unfortunately, she has had quite the challenge in looking after the boy. Jacques Schnee was a cold, manipulative, amoral man devoid of empathy and his son was well on the track to becoming another mini-Jacques. She has tried her best to steer Willow's son from that path, but Jacques' influence is beginning to take hold; especially now that the boy's sister is heading to Beacon Academy to be trained as a huntress.

The only thing that differentiates Whitley from his father was the boy's intelligence. Jacques was no slouch intellectually, but the man was hopeless when it came to the finer nuances of quantum computing and mechanical engineering. To put it simply, the boy was a veritable scientific prodigy. At the age of four, the boy built his first circuit board. Then, at age six, he built two robotic assistants. Then at Age 9, he created the world's first fully self-aware AI, which he kept a secret from everybody except her and Happy. He was also the youngest graduate of the highly renowned Baxter Foundation, having learned under great scientists such as Reed Richards, Bill Foster, and the long-disgraced Arthur Watts. Today, he would add another achievement to his still-growing list of achievements.

Whitley Schnee was graduating _summa cum laude_ from the Atlas Technology Institute, and as the youngest person to have ever done so. The only other person who could have accomplished such a feat at that age would have been the boy's grandmother, Antoinette "Toni" Stark-Schnee. Many people these days forget that while Nicholas Schnee did have the drive and ambition to build the Schnee Dust Company, his wife, Toni, was the person to thank for the company's expansion, as her technology helped catapult the then-fledgling company to heights greater than even he imagined. It was a safe bet that their grandson has also inherited the Stark-Smarts.

 _And maybe that signature snark that comes with it._ She thinks nostalgically, remembering the fiery old woman's sharp tongue.

She adjusts the camera on her Scroll, trying to get a better view on the stage where Whitley will deliver his speech. As the boy's primary caregiver, it was her role to attend all the biggest events in his life. She felt giddy and excited, as though she were a pot bursting with joy that was ready to blow.

 _I wonder if this is what being a parent feels like?_ She wonders.

The sound of shuffling feet and short whispers of "Excuse Me" or "Sorry" cuts her thoughts short. She feels a strong weight settle down next to her and she looks to her side. Sitting next to her, munching on some popcorn, is the boy's bodyguard and her fiancé, Harold "Happy" Hogan. Happy is a burly, black-haired, broad-shouldered man, dressed in a fine black business suit, with a face that always seems to be set in a semi-permanent frown (Hence the ironic nickname). One look at him and one would think that he hates his job, but truthfully it is the best work he has ever had. How does Pepper know this? It is because they were able to meet each other. It is Pepper's hope that she would be able to feel true parental pride with Happy in the future, should they ever decide to have kids. For now, attending Whitley's college graduation would make for a wonderful substitute.

"Has he gone on yet?" Happy asks before chewing on some popped kernel.

Pepper sighs, "Not yet, they haven't. The ceremony hasn't even started yet."

"Of course it hasn't. You'd think since Atlesians pride themselves on efficiency, they would have found a way to make these things shorter." He snorts.

"Well, I'm glad I got to wait. Gave me time to think," She counters, before leaning on his shoulder. "Like how I was just thinking this would make great practice for when we have our own little college graduate."

Happy nearly choked on his corn at that remark. Pepper tittered into her hand, so as not to disturb the other spectators. Despite being in their mid-forties, their relationship resembles more a high school couple than soon-to-be spouses. Even at their age, Pepper could still make him stutter like he was still a lovelorn teenager. It's cute in her opinion.

Happy breathes in and exhales. "Don't do that again."

Deciding to change the subject, Pepper asks, "You've seen Rhodey anywhere?"

"No, but he did call. Couldn't make it he says, he's at his niece's graduation down at Globe Academy." He explains.

"Ciel's graduating? Wow, I haven't seen that girl in a while." Pepper said amazed, before wondering aloud, "How time flies. To think that the little girl who would try to march around in her uncle's boots is gonna become a Huntress."

" _Specialist_ , honey, _SPECIALIST,"_ Happy reminds her, using the official title given to Atlas Graduate.

" _Specialists_ , right. Of course, Oh, how silly of me," She grouses distastefully.

Pepper has never approved of the council's decision to merge Alsius Academy with the military, back during the Kingdom's administration transitioned from Mantle to Atlas. Being the daughter of a Huntsman, she was raised under the belief that Huntsman and Huntresses should be protecting _all_ of Remnant's people, not exclusively one of its kingdoms. By having specially-trained and Aura-empowered warriors part of their armed forces, Atlas was effectively building up what is essentially an army of super-soldiers.

 _But, then again, that is far from the worst decision they've ever made._ Pepper concedes, recalling the council's stances on certain issues.

She can save the politics for later. Right now, she should just focus on watching what is shaping to be the proudest moment of her godson's life.

"Anyway, is there anything else I need to know?" She asks.

Happy replies, "Actually, yeah. Obie and Whitney are here too. Whitley's not the only one graduating, remember?"

Of course, she hasn't forgotten. Not only is the youngest Schnee graduating, but also Ezekiel Stane, Obadiah's eldest and only son. Other than Whitley's late grandmother, Ezekiel, or "Zeke" as everyone called him, was the only other person who can match the boy in scientific prowess and potential. At the age of 17, Zeke would have been the youngest ATI graduate if the Schnee had not been a student. In fact, he was set to graduate last year, but circumstances had prevented him from finishing his final semester.

Pepper frowns, recalling the tragic events of the previous year. While Zeke was vacationing with his family in Vacuo, the White Fang attacked the resort they were staying at, killing as many humans as they could. Zeke was paralyzed during the attack, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. But it wasn't the loss of his legs that cost him his graduation, he could live without them. But he did lose something of greater value.

Among those killed in the attack was his mother.

The loss of Juliet Stane was a blow to everyone who knew her, especially her husband and children. Obadiah buried himself in his work, barely spending time with his children as they grieved. His sister, once a lively and sociable young lady, was traumatized by the experience, often enduring crippling anxiety attacks when in a large crowd. But of them all, it was Ezekiel who had suffered the most. The loss of his mother, exacerbated by his paralysis, sent the boy into a catatonic state of depression. For months, the boy would barely acknowledge the world around him, barely uttering a word and being fed by nurses. It wasn't until he finally received the help he truly needed that he began to recover. Slowly, but surely, the family was healing. But the wounds were still fresh.

 _Speaking of family, shouldn't there be a certain one sitting with us?_ Pepper thinks.

"Have you heard anything from the guests of honor?" She asks Happy with a worried frown.

Happy frowns and speaks, "Not directly, no. Ironwood says that Winter's in Mistral, on a classified mission." Pepper thought that was a valid excuse.

He continues, "Weiss is preparing for her trip to Vale. You know, Beacon's Entrance Exam?"

"But the Exam's not until June, why would she leave now?!" Pepper asks indignantly.

"She apparently wants to "familiarize" herself with the kingdom before the first semester begins. She says she wants to prove that she can make it on her own." Happy calmly explains.

 _More like she wants to get as far away from Jacques-ass as possible!_ Pepper internally fumes. _Not that I blame her. I've known the man for close to thirty years and I wanted to deck him the first minute we met. Still, Weiss could have had the decency to be here for her brother._

"Okay, what about Willow?" She deigns to ask.

Happy sighs, "Currently in her bedroom, nursing one hell of a hangover… again."

Pepper sighs despondently. She was disappointed in what her friend has become. When she first met Willow Schnee, she was quite the vivacious woman. She had dreams of traveling the world and living life to the fullest, unshackled by the responsibilities of being the heiress to one of Remnant's most influential companies. They were thick as thieves as well, and were quite the pair of hell raisers. Then she married Jacques Schnee. No explanation needed for what happened next.

"And what about the oh-so exalted Jacques Schnee?" She sneers. She may work for the man, but she didn't have to like him and with good reason in her opinion.

Happy frowns, "Important Business Meeting. One he can't afford to miss."

"…I see." Pepper simply states.

Outwardly, the woman seemed as calm as she can be. Internally, however, a violent storm of anger was swelling within her very being. Winter and Weiss not coming she could understand. Willow being too hungover to even crawl out of bed, It was a terrible reason, but she could understand. But who, in the name of the gods, did Jacques Schnee think he is?! Out of everyone in the entire Schnee family, she thought Jacques would have been the one to actually show up. Just what kind of meeting was he in that would warrant him to miss him out on his only son's graduation?!

 _Settle down, Pep. Today is not about Jacques._ She calmly reminds herself.

She can save the drama for later. Today is meant to be a happy occasion. She and Happy were here and that was good enough for her godson. Though she hoped Whitley wouldn't notice.

" _Attention, Attention! It is now time for the ceremony to begin. We thank you for coming out today, on this most beautiful April evening, to celebrate the accomplishment of these remarkable young people. Welcome to the graduation ceremony for the class of '08!"_ A very obnoxious voice declared over the stadium's speakers.

She and Happy joined the other seated guests in applauding. Directing their attention to the large video display, they watch in anticipation as an elderly and finely-dressed man approached the stage on the field. " _Now, let us welcome the President of the University, who will open our ceremony with some final words of encouragement for our outgoing students!"_

More applause erupts, which the school administrator seemed to relish in, if the large grin were anything to go by. He ascends up the stairs then strolls across the stage to his podium, which is situated next to a row of tables where the student's diplomas laid. The audience sat in silence. The man tapped the microphone, testing to see if it is carrying over the speaker system. He is rewarded with the sounds of loud, muffled taps reverberating through the speakers.

He leaned and begins to speak. Before he could, he snaps his fingers, as though he was just remembered something. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out flash cards. It was a lot of flash cards, a stack thick enough to be a miniature book.

He read the first card, _"Welcome parents, friends, and colleagues alike. I am honored to be standing here today to help these remarkable young people one last time. My students, today marks an important occasion, perhaps the most significant one of your lives-"_

He shuffles to the second card. Pepper couldn't help but groan. Maybe Happy has a point.

* * *

" _You are now at a crossroads. After you exit those hallowed halls as students for the last time, it will be up to you to decide what path you'll take. In fact, allow me to tell a story of one of our proud alumni to inspire-"_

He shuffles a card, _"You. That student is none other than me. Close to forty years ago today, I sat where you are now sitting…"_

The students sat in silence as the old man delivered his speech. Some were sitting in rapt attention, unblinking and trying to absorb as much as they can hear. Most were nodding off, trying to stay awake long enough for the moment they receive their degrees. There were a few who did fall asleep, having already spent a considerable amount of time waiting for the ceremony to begin. But one student is not listening, idling about, or sleeping. He is looking over the stadium, searching for his family.

Sitting among his classmates, Whitley Schnee pretended to listen to the dean of his soon-to-be alma mater. By his calculations, the man should be on stage for close to twenty minutes, if the big stack of flash cards were any clue. In his opinion, the old man was giving what he thought was perhaps the second longest speech he has ever heard in his life. The honor of "longest speech ever" went to his mother. He heard it at his older sister's tenth birthday party, during one incredibly foulmouthed, alcohol-fueled rant directed at his father.

His leg was shaking from combined boredom and anticipation. He wondered if anyone else was even listening at this point. Curious, he turned his head slightly to his right and looked at his friend Ezekiel "Zeke" Stane. The blonde-haired teenager is seated right beside him; dressed in the same white graduation robes he is wearing, sitting in the same wheel-chair he has had since the boy lost use of his legs. His friend seems to have fallen into the thrall of the sandman, if his closed eyes and slouched shoulders were anything to go by. To Whitley's amusement, he has what looks to be a snot bubble, inflating than deflating with each snore, hanging from his nose.

He nudges the boy awake. Zeke wakes with a jolt and glared at Him, saying, "Why'd you do that? I was finally getting some sleep after all those exams."

Whitley smirks. "The ceremony is about to begin. I Just wanted you awake to witness _my_ glorious speech."

"Oh, yes, how could I forget? I can practically feel my legs tremble in anticipation." Zeke dryly remarks.

"I know, right? I wrote it last night in under ten minutes. I mean the president wanted to give his speech first, and we compromised to have mine end the cere-" Whitley did a double-take, and looks at his friend's legs. "B-but you can't feel anything in your legs."

"That's how excited I am to hear your speech." The wheelchair-bound boy finally admitted.

The Schnee pouted and crossed his arms. "I suppose you thought that was cute?"

Zeke chuckles and gives the boy a cheeky half-grin. "Cute? Bitch, please. I think I'm adorable."

"You're 17, far too old to be considered adorable." Whitley Shot back.

"Alright, alright, alright- Fine, I take it back. Gods, learn to take a joke, you grump." Zeke teased.

It wasn't that Whitley couldn't take the joke. In fact, he thought it was rather funny. His friend often uses humor to relieve a tense situation. But he doesn't feel tense at all, far from it. He feels all sorts of emotions, ranging from anticipation and all the way down to uneasiness. How could he not feel like that? Today is the beginning of the rest of his life, as well as those of his classmates. And just like his fellow soon-to-be graduates, he's feeling a little uneasy about leaving what has essentially been their home for the last few years.

He reminds himself that he shouldn't be afraid. He must never show fear. Fear implies weakness, and weakness is a trait of the common people. Schnees were not commoners, they stood above them and proudly so. His father taught him that. It is one of the many lessons that he and his sisters were given, though unlike them, he has actually retained them.

But the one emotion he could feel is satisfaction. A true Schnee doesn't give in to fear, as it leads to defeat. Instead, they should relish in their victories, as it was their gods-given right to do so. Right now, he has accomplished something that was considered impossible for most people his age. He is graduating from college at the age of _fifteen,_ and _summa cum laude_ at that _._ He has every right to feel satisfied.

And he, sure as hell, was going to make sure everybody knows it, which is why he has reserved seats for his whole family in the stands. He even invited Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey. He owed those three that much, considering they've each played an important role in his life. There was no need to invite the Stane family, considering they would've been here just for Zeke.

He takes another glance around the stadium, trying to find the section where his family should be seated. As he searches, he listens in on the president's speech, so that he'll know when the time came for his name to be called. He is supposed to give his own speech after every student received their degrees.

"… _And that is the story of how I became president of this honored institution. I know that many of you are wondering why I am telling you all this. It is because I know what lies ahead of you. As I mentioned before, it will be up to you how you would use what you've learned here…"_

 _And I intend to use what I've learned to reach the top!_ Whitley smugly thought.

No matter where he went in life, Whitley Schnee was going to be on top, period. He will prove to everyone that _he_ was the only one worthy of inheriting the SDC. He deserves that right, being the only one of Jacques Schnee's not to have abandoned their family. Their father had done everything in his power to give them the life they have. How did his oldest sister, Winter, repay him? She left and joined the military, abandoning her own family to indulge her selfish interests. She deserved to be disowned in his opinion.

 _Good riddance!_ He sneered.

With Winter's departure, the inheritance fell onto their sister, Weiss. He couldn't help but snarl, just the mere mention of that name was enough to upset him. _Oh, Weiss, she is so perfect! She has our mother's beauty! She has the voice of an angel! She's so poised in her sword technique, moving with the grace of a ballerina! You must be so proud to be her brother, Whitley, don't you think?!_

In his opinion, Winter and Weiss should be proud to be his sisters, since he's faced more adversity than them. He didn't have Aura, their familial Semblance, or their sword fighting prowess. He has spent his entire life trying to get out of their shadows. He wasn't athletic like them, so he chose to build his intellect rather than his muscles. He couldn't swing swords like them, so he learned how to forge one (And how to turn it into a gun too!). He didn't have Weiss' angelic voice, so he learned to play instruments instead.

But at the end of the day, he was still in their shadows. If this were a competition, his sisters would be the gold medalists. As for him, well, he was the bronze. The one nobody even cares to acknowledge, let alone care for at all. Even his mother won't give him the time or the day. The only relative to have ever believed in him was his Grandma Toni. He was…

He didn't know what he was to his family. He was the most accomplished of his father's children, yet he is treated as nothing but an outsider. He could feel tears starting to form in his eyes, which he quickly wiped away before they could fall. He will show no weakness. He is the son of Jacques Schnee and that alone was something to be proud of.

And he knew full well that his father was proud of him right now.

Deciding that he would have a better view from the stage, he ceased his impromptu search. To his relief, the old man was finally finishing his speech. He listened intently, trying to show that he had been listening the entire time.

" _And so, it is with great pleasure that I now hand to you your diplomas. When I call your name, please come to the stage and take your degree."_ The old man spoke, shuffling his cards back into the jacket.

He took the first diploma and announced, _"Aaronson, Aaron A."_

A round of applause erupted for the named student, who immediately rose up and started strolling toward the stage. On the Wombotron, everyone saw his smiling face as he approached. As soon as he reached the stage, he took his diploma, exchanged some words with the president, and shook his hand. He promptly left the stage to return to his seat.

" _Aakster, Maggie P."_ Another student rose to take her diploma.

" _Amber, Ashley."_ Another student rose. For each name called, a student would come to the stage, and repeat what their classmates did. There were nearly one-thousand students in attendance and there were no absences. It gave Whitley time to compose himself. He straightened his tie, hoping that no one would notice.

Someone noticed. "You seem more nervous now than before."

Looking to Zeke, Whitley replies quickly. "I'm not nervous, I'm just excited. I just wanna look my best."

"Then why are you sweating?" Zeke remarks with a raised eyebrow.

Whitley's eyes widened. He swipes his hand across his forehead and feels… nothing.

He hears a small snort that soon turns into muffled chuckling. Zeke got him again. Unlike last time, Whitley decides to join in the laughter, hiding his own behind his fist. The boy speaks, "Okay, I'll give you this one."

Upon hearing that, Zeke fist-pumps, declaring, "Yes! I finally got Whitley Schnee to laugh; my college bucket list is complete."

 _He's certainly excited, more so than I am._ Whitley wouldn't admit it, but he is feeling nervous. All that bluster about not showing weakness, and here he was, shaking in his shoes. Zeke, despite his terrible prank (terrible in the sense that it was not very clever and pretty juvenile) did calm him down. There really is nothing like the healing power of laughter.

The president has reached the H's. Soon both he and Zeke will be called up. After that, all that remained was waiting out the rest of the names. After that, Whitley will give his own speech. Minutes pass by, as each name in every successive letter of the alphabet is called out. Finally, the old man reaches the letter S.

After a few names, the old man calls out _"Schnee, Whitley."_

Whitley rises from his seat, with Zeke giving him an encouraging smile. His action is greeted with thunderous applause, the loudest received for a student thus far. He knew they were applauding his name, not himself, but he didn't care. This is his moment. He gives the biggest grin he could muster, which everyone sees over the giant monitor. The audience increases the volume of their applause in turn, with some stomping their feet and shouting raucously. He savors the adulation, shallow as it may be. Reaching the stairs, he walks up with a confident spring in his step. Everything is going perfectly so far.

He reaches the podium and shakes the president's hand. The old man smiles and says, "Congratulations, Mr. Schnee. You have far exceeded many expectations since enrolling here. Now look where you stand, the youngest graduate to have ever come from this University. I feel honored to have been President during your time here."

"Thank you, Sir. I truly appreciate your words. I hope that I'll be able to continue honoring the school after today." Whitley replies, giving a genuine smile.

"I've no doubts about that, young man. If you'd pardon my boldness, I wish to ask a favor from you." The old man asks him.

"And that favor is…?" He leaves the question hanging.

"Would you be so kind as to deliver your speech now? I know we've had you scheduled for the end of the ceremony, but I believe everyone here would like to hear from our star pupil."

Whitley smirks, his relish reaching newer heights. "I see no problem with that. So long as you answer this question: Where is my family sitting?"

"The organizers have placed them in the front stands. I've made sure the cameras would be on them when you gave your speech." The school official tells him.

 _Yes! Everything is going smoothly!_ The teenager squeals inwardly, trying desperately to contain his excitement.

Thanking the president and agreeing to his request, Whitley approaches the podium. Unlike the old man, he didn't need to write his speech on paper, having memorized all of it last night. He takes a deep breath and speaks into the mic.

" _Good day to you all. You know who I am."_ He confidently announces. " _I know that there other students waiting to get their degrees, but the president has asked if I could deliver my speech now. I would've said no, but I can tell from your applause that you just want more of me. Am I wrong?"_

Thunderous applause and hollers of approval echoed through the stadium, both from the audience and the students. _"Good Answer."_ He says with a smile.

He begins his speech.

" _My Grandfather, may he rest in peace, had a philosophy. He believed that if you had the right motivation, and the conviction to match, you could find your way out of any undesirable situation. It was that kind of fire that helped get my family to where it is today. How successful was he, one might ask? Well, aside from the obvious answer that's standing 85 stories tall on the other side of the city, the fact that we're all sitting in a stadium named after him speaks for itself. I never got to know him, but I believe that the legacy he left behind tells me enough about him."_

He pauses before continuing, _"Legacy, now, that's a scary word. Much like a person or a tool, it has both positive and negative connotations. It defines how we are viewed by history, judging us on how we have lived and what we've accomplished. My grandfather has left a huge legacy for my family, one that they've have always strived to uphold. As for me, well, I have no interest in propagating that legacy, there would be no point since it stands strong. No, I have another goal… I want to surpass him. I have my ambitions, and have enough conviction to see them through. That is how I will honor my grandfather, though living by the philosophy that made him a legend."_

He pauses again, so that he can let the audience drink those words in. Observing his classmates, he sees that that he's evoked many reactions with his words. He can see amazement, bewilderment, confusion, and envy. He wonders what his family is feeling right now. His father is probably feeling immense paternal pride, enough that would warrant that extremely rare fatherly hug (Which he hasn't have had since he was four). His mother is probably feeling immense amounts of mixed shame and pride (Proud of the man he was becoming and shame that she couldn't have spent more time with him growing up). His sisters are probably feeling shame, pride, and envy (Proud that he could stand on equal footing as them, ashamed for locking him out of their lives, and envy that he was more of an heir than they could ever be, especially Weiss).

 _And now for the stroke of grace,_ he deviously thinks.

He speaks again, _"But I still have a ways to go in building my own legacy. I may have just graduated from ATI, but this moment is but a tear-drop in the ever-expanding puddle that is my life. By comparison, my grandfather was a vast ocean to my little puddle. I can only hope that my life will be as marvelous as his, but I can only get so far on my own. I need the help of everyone close to me to help me live a long life. My grandfather had my Grandmother, Toni Stark-Schnee, and their only daughter, my mother. I have my friends and my whole family."_

He gestures to the Wombotron. He sees his face on the monitor, briefly admiring it, before it begins switching to another camera feed. He could hardly contain himself. This is it, the moment of truth. He will remember this day as the one when he finally became an equal in the eyes of his family. He was on Cloud 9, No, scratch that, he was on Cloud _99._

The screen stops flipping between channels. The Image that appears is that of the stadium section where his friends and family's seats are reserved. The camera zooms in and…

 _W-what?_ Whitley frowns, looking at the monitor in disbelief.

He could see Pepper and Happy in their seats, both trying to maintain a composed demeanor while being on screen. Rhodey's seat was empty, which he considered a possibility since the man's niece was graduating from Globe. However, there seemed to be a few missing people. And by a few people, he meant his entire family, considering that nobody was sitting in their reserved seats!

 _B-but, I… I…_ He couldn't even begin to articulate what he was feeling. Everything had been going so perfectly, yet it still went wrong. He worked his ass for three years, neglected nearly every aspect of his social life, and earned three degrees in engineering, physics, and business management. He thought his family would be here to congratulate him, maybe even give him a hug or two. What does he get from those people, instead? Nothing, he received absolutely nothing.

He noticed that a silence had begun to build in the stadium. There were no murmurs or whispers, not even the clichéd chirping grasshopper. He couldn't hear anything, but he could definitely see the looks of pity on his classmates. He couldn't even begin to imagine what thoughts were hiding behind those faces. He couldn't see them, but he could just feel the emotions of all the people in the audience. He knew his family wasn't that popular, so he imagined that many felt that satisfaction with his humiliation. It felt suffocating, to be honest, like he was drowning in a sea of resentment.

Forcing a smile to his face, as he has done his whole life, he speaks into the mic. _"Well, I did say they're dedicated, right. They are so dedicated to honoring the family that they were just too busy to come. But I know that they're feeling very proud right now."_

At least he could try salvaging what dignity he had left.

" _I'm glad that I was able to have spoken to you all. These past three years have been the best of my life. I want to thank you all for being wonderful classmates, and I feel immense pride in having taken this journey with you. But like all journeys, we have finally reached our destination. But now, it is time for us to part ways."_

 _Keep the smile up; don't let them see you're upset. "Good-bye"_

Stepping away from the podium, he thanked the president and took his certificate. He didn't hear the polite applause around him as he returned to his seat. He didn't hear Zeke's name being called out, as well as the thunderous applause that followed. The only thing he does hear is the single thought running through his brain.

 _Did you really think things would change?_

* * *

"Damn you, Jacques…" Pepper swears, cursing her boss for failing his family again.

She feels the warm touch of her fiancée's hand upon her own. They lock their fingers together. Thankfully, it calms her down.

"Go meet with Whitley. I'll start the car." Happy said, "No doubt he wants answers from Jacques."

She nods, giving him all the affirmation he needs. He promptly gets up, making his way out of the stadium. She just sat there waiting for the ceremony to end. She's going to be there for Whitley. His family has certainly shown that they wouldn't.

 _I don't know why I'm even surprised._ She thought, knowing that their absence was a foregone conclusion. She just hopes this doesn't crush the boy, or at least more than it already has.

* * *

After the ceremony ended, the newly-minted graduates quickly made their way the entrance to meet with their loved ones. They came out in droves, both them and their loved ones, flooding into the parking lot like a rushing tide. This tide flooded the area, mutterings of well-wishes and declarations of love echoing through the crowds, in varying degrees of affection. Many students gathered with friends to say their farewells and making promises to meet again soon. Some gathered with now-former classmates to make plans for celebrating the night away. Yes, everyone is in high spirits.

Save for one, that is.

Making his way through the crowds, accompanied by Pepper and Happy, Whitley tried his hardest not to stare at the families. He'd be lying if he said that the idea wasn't tempting. He's always wondered what a happy family looked like. He imagines a loving and supportive father, a kind and caring mother, and two sisters whom were very proud of their baby brother; the opposite of his family.

He spots a middle-aged man giving his son a bear hug, sharing a warm smile with him. He averts his eyes, not wanting more reason to sulk. He looks to Pepper asks, "So, I take it Rhodey is at his niece's graduation."

"Yes, he called Happy and told him." She confirmed, "Whitley, don't be upset with him. He would've been here if he wanted to. There were just prior engagements."

The boy sighs, waving the comment off, "No, no, it's alright. I understand. Just tell him I'm happy for him and… uhm…"

"Ciel, her name's Ciel." She reminded him.

"Ciel, right, of course," He lamely replied.

Pepper could only sigh, knowing that nothing she could say will lift the boy's feelings. How can anyone feel happy after being blown off by their family? After shuffling their way through a few people, the trio finally made their way out of the maze of people. Now free to move about, they make their way to the car. They walk quickly, hoping not to run into any nosy reporters eager to interview the youngest Schnee.

They find Happy's car, which is a black Puma XJ. Top of the line and still looking fresh off the assembly line, it showed that the bodyguard took great care in maintaining it. It was gifted to him by the company, both as thanks for his hard work and to serve as the personal ride of Whitley Schnee, whenever the boy left Schnee Manor. Jacques had wanted the car to be painted silver and blue, so as to show whom the car really belonged to. Happy was able to talk the man down from that idea, convincing him of the need to stay conspicuous. It was one of the few times that Jacques Schnee had ever lost an argument. Happy was lucky to have kept his job.

Approaching the parked vehicle, Happy opens the passenger door for his young charge. Just as Whitley was putting his foot in, he is interrupted by a voice he was quite familiar with. "You know, it's considered rude in some kingdoms to leave without a word."

He turned on his heel to see the entirety of the Stane family standing before him. Obadiah Stane (Whom he and his siblings affectionately called "Uncle Obie" when they were younger) was a tall, middle-age gentleman. He cut quite the figure in his dark blue business suit, which was finely pressed and well-tailored, a metaphorical representation of his influence. He was also easy to spot on account of his _very_ bald head, which had nary a single strand of hair on his scalp. His gray eyes, though aged beyond their years, still held a considerable amount of mirth in them. Much like his father, Obadiah was another man he saw as an inspiration.

"Mr. Stane, it's a pleasure to see you, sir." The boy politely greets.

Obadiah laughs, "Whitley, I've known you since you were in diapers. It's Obie, just plain-old Obie."

Whitley chuckles hesitantly, unsure how to address the man. He's always been a stickler for protocol when it comes to his betters. It felt weird to him, addressing an adult so familiarly, even if the one in question has been a close family friend for years, with an acquaintance lasting long before his parent's marriage. But Obadiah was eccentric and he didn't care much for such displays of formality. That very personable aura of his has endeared him to the public, making him more popular than his father.

"Daddy, please stop acting so… _you._ You have an image to uphold." The man's daughter, Whitney, warns in futility.

Whitley looked at Whitney. She was a pretty girl, about a year older than him, who preferred baggy clothing. Like her brother, she too had blonde hair and light blue eyes, which they both inherited from their mother. He remembers when she had been a more outgoing and very _outspoken_ girl, often complaining to her parents about clothes, boys, and make-up. But then she lost her mother and, like her father, retreated into herself, though her case was more severe. She became very withdrawn and afraid of crowds, and would often go into a panic attack when it became too crowded for her liking. She has been working with a therapist on dealing with these issues. Considering her presence, she has been making great strides in her treatment.

"Come now, Winnie," Obadiah chuckles, using his daughter's nickname, "I may be the company's CFO, but that doesn't mean I should act all high-and-mighty 24/7."

"But you're embarrassing me…" She whispers embarrassedly, though everyone could hear her.

"Father first, businessman second," He says before explaining. "Embarrassing my kids is kind of a requirement for my main job."

He ruffles his son's hair and declares. "And showing pride is another!"

Zeke blushes under the praise, crying, "Dad, stop it! I'm eighteen, not eight!"

Whitley watches the interaction between father and son with a mix of amusement and envy. He enjoyed seeing his friend getting embarrassed by his father, but he couldn't help but feel jealous at the attention he's receiving. For an instant, he imagines himself in his friend's place, receiving loving praise from his own father. He feels his mouth start to twitch, and had to force himself from frowning.

"Schnee's don't frown, they only smirk." His father told him once.

"Forgive my bluntness, but is there something you wanted to say to me, Mr. Stane?" He asks, trying not to sound rude.

Obadiah looks at the boy and tells him, "Actually, I just wanted to congratulate you for graduating. I know my praise can't compare to your father's, but I just want you to know that there is someone who is proud of you."

Whitley smiles and it was a genuine one. "I thank you for your kind words. I can only hope my family shares in your sentiments."

Obadiah places a reassuring hand on his shoulder and said. "They are proud of you, Whitley. It's just that certain… _circumstances_ prevent them from showing their pride."

Whitley frowns, thinking. _Circumstances, that's probably the nicest way to describe our situation._

The Stane patriarch catches the frown and says. "You know, Whitney and Zeke are going to Mistral to celebrate their graduation. I don't know if you have plans, but you're welcome to join them."

Zeke speaks up. "I don't have a problem with that."

Whitney perks up and starts clapping her hands. "It has been a while since the three of us did anything together… maybe Weiss would like to-" She stops when she sees the frown Whitley is giving her.

"S-Sorry, I didn't mean to…" She whimpers.

"No, no, don't say you're sorry. I should be the one that's sorry, for upsetting you." Whitley quickly apologized.

Whitney may have made some progress, but she was still very sensitive when it comes to social interaction. Whitley was not going to contribute to her already crippling self-esteem issues. That and he can't stand the sight of a crying woman. Especially if it happened to be a beautiful woman and Whitney was most assuredly beautiful.

 _Maybe I should ask her out… no, the last thing she needs is a relationship with a Schnee._ Whitley thought, knowing the inherent risks that come with associating with his family. The Stane family have already suffered enough on account of Obadiah's role as his father's right-hand.

He can think about Obadiah's offer though. Perhaps some time away from Atlas would be good for him. It would also give him time to think about what he could do now that he's finally graduated. He may have a bachelor's degree in engineering, physics, and business management, but he did know he had very few prospects because of his age. Knowledge and wealth can get you far in life, but only if you were old enough to use them.

"I'll think about it, Mr. Stane." He tells the man, before turning to his children, "Zeke, Whitney, I hope I'll see you both before you leave."

"Sorry, Whit, but we're leaving today." Zeke tells the boy, with his sister sending him an apologetic nod.

"I see… well, I don't want to hold you up. Enjoy your trip; I hear North Mistral is beautiful this time of year." Whitley said, shaking

He steps inside the car and sits in the backseat. Pepper and Happy follow, taking their places in the passenger and driver seats. Happy starts the engine and begins driving. Whitley gives a final wave to the Stane family, whom reciprocate with their own. He looks back at the campus, for the final time, and smiles.

"Farewell…" He whispers.

* * *

 **5:45 PM**

The ride back to Schnee Manor was uneventful, to say the least. Traffic was low, especially for today considering that events such as the university and combat school graduations were occurring. To some, it would be seen as strange, but for Whitley, he was just glad something was going right for once today. All he wanted was to get home quickly. After spending an hour in the car, he finds himself standing before the main door, with Pepper and Happy behind him.

Whitley looks up at his home. To many, it seemed like a castle out of an old fairy tale, with all the clichéd design aesthetics like high towers, a main entrance, and a grand courtyard. He doesn't know exactly how his family came to possess it. From what he heard, it was a gift from the Kingdom to his grandfather, Nicholas, for all of his contributions to its economy. Another story he heard told that it once belonged to a member of the old aristocracy, who was a distant relative of his great-grandfather, Kris Schnee, and had gifted the structure to him upon his death. Whitley thought the latter story was more of a tall tale, considering his great-grandfather was just a typical run-of-mill soldier from Mantle.

The trio strolls up to the main door, an impressively large entrance that made visitors feel very small when they look upon it. Without even a knock, the door opens; having been pulled by one of the Schnee's many servants. It was practically engrained into the staff that one must always anticipate a Schnee's demands before they even speak them.

The servant at the door, whose name Whitley can't recall, bows and addresses them. "Welcome home, Master Whitley, and a most warm welcome to you as well, Miss Potts and Mister Hogan."

Whitley struts in, without sparing the servant a single glance. Happy and Pepper follow, though they were more respectful to the man. The servant shuts the doors behind them, closing with a very loud creak that echoes throughout the castle. The busybody quickly strolls up to the young Schnee, who asks "Where is my Father?"

"Master Jacques has recently returned from the company headquarters. He is waiting for you in his study." The man replies, before looking over to his companions, "We thank you for watching over the young master in our absence. But your services are not required at this moment. You are free to leave."

Whitley directs a steady stare at him, "I would like some time to speak with my guests. Inform my father that I will come shortly."

The servant bows in acquiescence, strolling off to inform the master of the house. Once he is out of their view, Whitley turns to Pepper and tells her. "Thank you, Pepper, for being there today. It really meant a lot."

She smiles and hugs the boy. "You don't have to thank me for anything, Whitley. Happy and I would've come either way."

"Yeah, kiddo, don't sweat it." Happy reaffirms, ruffling the boy's hair.

Pepper releases the boy, whom quickly fixes his hair. He smiles at them and thinks. _They've done so much for me. Pepper looks after me and doesn't even expect anything in return. Happy would take a bullet for me, even if it wasn't real. I may not trust that many people, aside from the Stanes, but I'm glad these two are in my life._

He decides they deserve something. He tells them, "You know, when I go speak with my father, I could convince him to give you that vacation you both wanted. Remember, that Vacoan safari?"

"You would do that, for us?" Pepper asks in disbelief, "Whitley, you don't have to."

"I don't _need_ to… I _want_ to. You two have done a lot for me, so I think it's time I did something for you." He says, not leaving any room for negotiation.

The couple looked to each other, not sure what to say to such an offer. While it is true that the two have not been on a single vacation in years, they couldn't just pack up and leave everything on a whim. It was Happy's job to guard Whitley, and it was Pepper's to ensure that the boy's father kept his schedule organized (no matter how much she despises the man.) But, they both knew one undeniable fact: When a Schnee offers something to you, they don't take no for an answer.

After weighing their options, Pepper smiles nervously and says. "Thank you, Whitley. We appreciate and accept your offer."

Whitley smiles, glad that they accepted his gift. He then shoos them off playfully. "You're welcome. Now, hurry up and get home, I'm sure you're both tired of looking after some dumb kid all day. Go do whatever it is most middle-aged couples do… which I assume involves binge-watching reruns of _Chrome's Anatomy_ on Flixnet."

"Okay, okay, we can take a hint," Happy says, before correcting the boy. "Also, we don't watch _Anatomy_ , and we're not that old."

 _You're 45, Happy. Compared to my age, that's old._ The boy amusedly thought.

"Alright, Happy, that's enough. Now let's get going before you have a heart attack, old man." Pepper interjected, trying hard not to laugh.

"Not you too, Pep…" The man whimpers, head hanging low.

With that out of the way, the couple bids farewell to the scion of the Schnee Family. They quickly walk back to the main door, which a servant opens for them. They leave through the opening, the door closing behind them with a dramatic rumble. Whitley stares at the door for a second, before turning on his heel to ascend the grand staircase.

"Now comes the hard part…" He sighs dejectedly, nursing his face into the same fake smile he has worn since childhood.

With carefully-hidden reluctance, he puts one foot in front of the other, steadily climbing the stairs. Each step didn't help calm his growing anxiety. He also couldn't help but think of what his father will say to him.

* * *

Within his study, Jacques Schnee is sitting somewhat-patiently at his desk. Why somewhat-patiently? Because he had called his son to his study more than five minutes ago, after he had made it clear that he wanted to speak with the boy immediately. He taught his children to always be punctual, because every second is valuable. Time is money, after all.

 _And for each second I'm waiting, I am losing close to 2.3 thousand!_ He thought incredulously. He did the math and it showed that he has already lost 690,000 Lien in the past five minutes. His son better have a good reason for keeping him waiting. If the boy's excuse didn't please him, he is going to do more than just send him to his room.

He hears a knock at the door. Keeping his voice steady, he says. "The door is open."

The door opens. He sees his son standing before the open doorframe, arms behind his back and chin being held up high, but not as high as his own chin, thankfully. At least his son remembers how to present himself to his betters. Though, that didn't excuse his tardiness, in his opinion. He beckons his son to enter the room.

Complying with his father's demands, Whitley enters the room, and quickly steps up to the front of his father's desk. Standing before the seated man, Whitley observes his appearance. He notes the furrowed brows, his clasped hands resting on the wooden surface of the desk, and some bags under his eyes. It seemed his father had pulled an all-nighter, and from what he can ascertain, it had not been a very productive one.

 _I guess that explains his absence at the ceremony… not that it makes me feel any better._ The boy thinks, not sure as to how he should be feeling.

"Son, I have been sitting here for the past five minutes, waiting for you. In that time, I thought about the amount of lien that I could've earned. Now, I am a reasonable man and I will give you a chance to explain your lack of punctuality. To put it simply: What took you so long?" His father asks calmly. The voice may have been steady, but Whitley could feel the indignation beneath it.

He replies steadily. "I was simply seeing off Ms. Potts and Mr. Hogan. As you've taught me, Father, a Schnee must always be courteous to their guests. I just wanted to live to the example that you have set for the family."

This is a strategy that Whitley has cultivated in his short fifteen years of life. His father can get angry at times, with an anger that could explode into fury if things didn't go his way. Whitley knew this better than anyone, as the youngest of the man's children, which put more pressure on him to keep in line. He remembers the times when he failed to do so. Those memories were _unpleasant_ , and that was putting it nicely. So how does one diffuse the ticking time-bomb known as Jacques Schnee? Simple: You feed his ego to the point that he forgets why he was angry.

Judging by the man's raising eyebrow, he has succeeded in calming the man down, but only slightly. Jacques replies. "Very well, I can at least forgive you for that. I'm pleased that you at least showed proper etiquette. Though, I must ask: why exactly Pepper and Hogan were here?"

 _Because they were dropping me off after my graduation, the one that_ you _should have been present for!_ This was what Whitley wanted to say, but instead he went with "They were dropping me off."

"Oh? and why would they do that?" His father asks, pressing for more information.

"Because I wasn't home," He replies, adding. "I was in the city for an important engagement."

Jacques scoffs in disbelief, "An important Engagement? What exactly would be so important for you as to leave the comfort of your home?"

"Well, I was graduating college." At that, his father's eyes shot up in surprise. Jacques Schnee was at a loss for words, a very rare occurrence. This has happened only twice before. The first was when Winter announced that she was joining the military, and on her 17th birthday no less. The second was when Weiss made clear her ambitions to become a huntress. Whitley remembered that last one quite bitterly, considering she declared it on his 13th birthday.

Why on his birthday? Because Weiss Schnee needs to be the center of attention no matter what, even if it meant ruining her own brother's party. It didn't help that an argument erupted between Winter and their father immediately afterward, because she always needs to support her little sister in everything. All Whitley did was sit quietly and eat his cake, ignoring the looks of pity from the guests all and trying to hold back his tears. He remembers that the cake tasted more salty and wet than sugary-sweet.

 _Don't get upset. Remember: Deep breaths, deep breaths._

His father's next words didn't help in calming him down. "Wait, your graduation was today?"

 _And don't forget, count to ten. Deep breaths and count to ten. You don't want to get upset, it'll make father even more upset._

Forcing himself from sneering, Whitley calmly explains. "Yes, my graduation was today. I was informed by Mr. Stane that you were at an important business meeting that prevented you from coming."

"Ah, yes, there was a very important meeting, indeed. You may go now, son. I have other matters to attend to." Jacques says, changing the subject.

 _That tone of voice… He didn't forget. He didn't even know… did he even care enough to ask…_

Whitley collects himself, reminding himself that his father is a very busy man. He has more important things to worry about than some trifling graduation.

"Thank you for your time, Father." Whitley nods to his father and turns to leave, but not before asking. "You know, Ms. Potts and Mr. Hogan deserve a vacation. Would you be so kind to give them one."

"Hmm, yes, yes, of course." Jacques replies off-handedly.

Whitley walks up to the door and slowly closes it behind him, making sure not to aggravate his father further. As soon as the door closes, Whitley begins walking to his room, alone in this coldly unwelcoming and deathly quiet hallway. His only company being the portraits on the walls watching his every move. It feels like they were judging him with those unmoving and cold painted eyes. He speeds up, wanting to get to his room sooner.

In the middle of his forlorn trek, he stops near his parent's bedroom. On the way back to the manor, Pepper informed to the whereabouts of his family. He knows his mother was lying in bed, nursing another hangover after drinking enough alcohol that could make even a Grimm lose their inhibitions. He just glares at the door. He didn't want to bother with that pathetic excuse for a gene-donor.

He continues on to his room. Hopefully, the rest of his day could be better.

* * *

In Whitley's bedroom, the sounds of music were blaring loudly, as well as being manipulated into newer ones. The room was sound-proofed, so nobody could hear it. How and why could there be any music playing? The answer was bobbing its nonexistent head to the beat. The how is because it had access to the internal server within the room, which it uses to store hours of songs, soundbites, for it use on its own sound-mixing software. As to the why, well, that was because it was bored as hell.

"⁓ _VIC-VIC-VIC,_ _VIC_ , _VIC. HIS NAME IS VIC, SPOKEN WITH A SILENT K ⁓!"_ Were the lyrics to this latest composition.

"Hmmm, maybe I can rework that last verse?" A very relaxed and mellow voice muses.

That voice belonged to none other than VIC, or the Very Intelligent Computer. It was an AI created by Whitley when he was nine, during a time when the boy was feeling lonely. Most kids at that age would be trying to make friends, but Whitley did so literally. With some guidance from his grandmother, the boy was able to write a revolutionary program that allowed a computer to make quantum calculations run by a rudimentary, multipurpose AI. However, like all AI, the base of the personality had to be based on an existing person's mind. The person used, unfortunately, was a rather _odd_ intern that the boy's grandmother was employing at the time. Combine all these and you get the world's first fully self-aware artificial intelligence.

It was quite the breakthrough, one that would've changed the world. Unfortunately, It had the personality of an out-of-work, twenty-something frat boy with zero tact. A frat boy who dropped out of college to pursue his musical dreams, as it were. Such concentrated eccentricity was better kept confined to a single room. For the past seven years, VIC has stayed within his creator's room, keeping to himself and not letting his presence known to the family.

Well, except for the times when he would crank-call the boy's father. The guy was a dick in his opinion, one who totally deserves it.

As VIC mixes his newest song, the door opens. He immediately ceases his fun when Whitley steps in. Activating a moving camera on the ceiling, VIC focuses on the boy's face. He seems upset.

"Hey there, roomie, how does it feel to be out of school?" VIC asks curiously.

Whitley just plants himself onto his bed and buries his face into his pillow. A muffled scream is heard.

"Wow, it hasn't even been a day and the soul-crushing regret has already settled in…"

Whitley clamps the pillow around his head, hoping to cancel out the auditory equivalent to arsenic that was his virtual roommate. He was not in the mood to entertain the AI.

"Well, if you're gonna mope, you can at least hear about the messages you've received."

With a groan, Whitley reluctantly rises up and asks. "Alright, who are the messages from?"

"Well, the first is an invitation to a party your father is holding for Weiss tonight. I think it was sent as a mistake."

 _Probably another attempt by father to convince Weiss not to leave, showing her everything she'd be leaving behind._ Whitley sneers, knowing that Weiss is going to Beacon because she hates everything that their father provides. She was selfish like that.

"The second was a telemarketer. Nothing important there, just some kind of ointment to grow hair."

Whitley had nothing to say about that. Why would he need something to grow hair? He already has beautiful hair; hair that was whiter than freshly fallen snow and combed to perfection.

"The last message was from some lawyer, said something about an inheritance from your grandma."

"Well, I guess nothing import- Wait, what?!" Whitley squeaks, much to his embarrassment.

His Grandma Toni left him an inheritance? He didn't know anything about an inheritance; in fact, this was the first he's heard of it. What was it that she could have left behind? The roadster, some unsolved formulas, inventions that the world wasn't ready to have in her lifetime?

Knowing his grandmother, the possibilities were limitless.

"Did I break your mind or something? You just keep staring at the wall."

For the first time, in a very long time, Whitley Schnee felt genuinely happy. His luck is finally turning around. He was so happy that he didn't mind going to Weiss' dumb party. In fact, he was looking forward to it. He finally had something to gloat about to her face. He jumps off the bed.

"Sorry, Vic, for worrying you, I'm just over the moon right now." Whitley excitedly declares.

"…Well, just be sure not to hit any fragments on your way down." VIC simply replies, completely confused by the boy's abrupt change in demeanor. Humans were weird. Humans are weird, he concludes.

"Alright, I want you to do a background check on that lawyer, then call his firm and schedule a meeting if he's legitimate. If this goes right, then consider your cat video privileges reinstated" Whitley commanded, bounding up to his closet.

Picking out a finely-pressed tuxedo and draping it over his shoulder, Whitley makes his way to the door. The boy flashes a thumbs-up to the AI before opening it. He leaves the room, leaving VIC alone in the room once again.

"Yep, humans are definitely weird…still, cat videos." VIC states, performing the requested background check. He was glad that Whitley is feeling much better. The boy looked like he could use a pick-me-up.

He hopes he has a nice time at the party.

* * *

 **Three hours later…**

There was nothing but fake smiles and empty compliments. These were what surrounded Whitley Schnee in this crowded ballroom. He sees nothing but fake smiles from two-faced opportunists who called themselves friends, the kind of people desperate to suck off the teat of his family's wealth. Apparently, there were people who knew that he has graduated and they all congratulated. He would've been flattered if it weren't for the fact that they were just empty compliments well-wishes being given by well-dressed snakes. But he just smiles and thanks them all the same; such manners are expected of a Schnee heir, after all.

Though if he were being honest, Whitley thought these people would at least _try_ to act more impressed. Sure, he's not a decorated specialist like Winter nor has he been accepted to a prestigious hunter's academy like Weiss. But he has done something impossible; an achievement that only his dearly departed grandmother, from whom he inherited his aptitude in science and sardonic wit, could have accomplished. He, Whitley Schnee, at the very young age of _fifteen_ , had just graduated from the Atlas Technological Institute, the top university in Atlas, and perhaps _all_ of Remnant; and at the top of his class. But nobody at this gala seems to grasp how much of an accomplishment that was.

 _They'd all be singing a different tune if I were older. Wealth and intelligence can get you far in life, so long as you're old enough to marry._ Whitley thinks as he takes a sip from his glass of seltzer water.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a small congregation of teenagers cornering his sister Weiss. He could tell from the smile on her face, a very smug one at that, that she is regaling them with her aspirations of becoming a huntress. Whitley tightens the grip on his glass, the only thing he could do to placate his rage.

 _Look at her. Thinking she's better than everyone…_ _I'm so looking forward to putting her in her place._

He smirks before downing the last of the glass' contents in one gulp, a feat that doubtlessly would have left his mother green with envy. That is, if the woman were ever sober enough to feel envious or even be present to have witness such an act. He was glad his father didn't catch that slip of control, as it wasn't befitting the "refined" image that the man was trying to cultivate for the family. Jacques Schnee was adamant that his children, the ones he still had under his thumb, display proper manners at these sorts of junctions. Such lessons of social etiquette were beaten into Whitley and his sisters by their father, sometimes quite _literally_. His father would have blown a fuse if he caught him.

But someone else catches it. "Easy there, Whitley. I know you've had a rough day, no need to try and make it your last."

Whitley turns to face the speaker, and he found himself smiling upon seeing who it was. Standing before him is none other than Pepper Potts, who had been invited to this party. With her fiery red hair cascading down her back, sparkling and playful blue eyes, and her toned form dressed in an elegant violet evening gown, the woman made for quite the vision in the ball room. Whitley imagines that she must have turned quite a few heads, if the brief yet very lustful glances from both men and women were a clue. Those wandering eyes would have strayed even further if it weren't for Happy's presence, who kept a protective arm around the woman's waist.

 _It's cute that Happy thinks Pepper can't handle herself._ Whitley thinks amusedly.

"I'm serious, Whitley, you could have choked yourself like that." She scolds the boy.

Whitley waves her off. "Well, it would've made me the center of attention again."

Pepper frowned, not approving of Whitley's nonchalance. "You really shouldn't joke about your own death like that."

"Especially since it's _my_ job to keep you alive," Happy added.

"Death," Whitley scoffs. "How can I die? I'm a Schnee. We Schnee are too stubborn to die…"

He then smirks. "Besides, we're rich enough to pay the Grim Reaper off."

"Is that _you_ talking, or your father? Because that sounds like something your father would say." Pepper pointed out.

Before Whitley could rebuke that statement, the sound of a glass clinking against another is heard. The crowds quiet down as they turn to the origin of the noise. Standing in the center of the room, Jacques Schnee raises a toast to his guests. "Thank you all for coming. I would like to say a few words."

Whitley watches the man scan the room, making sure he has everyone's attention. More specifically, he is trying to ensure that his daughter is paying attention. The boy knows she is, considering this party is meant for her. She better appreciate the gesture.

His father addresses the crowd. "As you all are aware, my daughter, Weiss, is leaving for Vale to participate in Beacon's entrance exam. I cannot even begin to express how proud I am of her. I feel relieved knowing that the Schnee legacy will be in her capable hands. Please, a round of applause for her."

His father claps, with his guests joining. From his spot, Whitley could see his sister blushing under the praise, giving a well-practiced curtsy despite her embarrassment. He snorts at the display, thinking maliciously. _Yeah, that's right. Keep drinking it in, dear sister. Hope you enjoyed it while you did._

He knew what his father is doing. He is trying to guilt-trip Weiss into staying in Atlas, or at the very least, return should she fail the entrance exam. It was a futile gesture in his opinion. As much as he may loathe his sister, he can admit that she is skilled and ridiculously so. Her swordsmanship is without equal, her knowledge of Dust practically genetic, and she could move with the grace of a spectral ballerina. Combine all those skills together and you have the perfect Huntress-in-training.

But she wasn't that perfect, she did have her own weaknesses such as a very short temper, an ego matching their father's, a borderline-hatred of Faunus, and a general unwillingness to cooperate with others if they don't meet her standards. By his calculations, his sister's chances of acing the entrance exam were high, so long as she reins in her worst impulses. He honestly hopes she does, considering that it'll give him time to convince his father that he is the rightful heir to the Schnee fortune.

"However, I want you to know this, Weiss. Should things not work out at Beacon, just know that you are always welcome to come home." His father declares, trying to sound as sincere as he can.

He watches Weiss bow again before saying. "Thank you for your kind words, Father. I know I shall honor the family well during my time at Beacon."

 _She really is that confident? Good._ He smugly thinks.

The sound of polite applause breaks him from his thoughts. They were it eating up. He watches his father raise a hand, silencing them. "Now, there is one more thing I must say. While I do applaud my daughter's accomplishments, she is not the only one of my children to make me proud today."

Whitley perks up, knowing full well whom his father was talking about. Next to him, Pepper gives him an encouraging smile.

"As most are aware, my son has graduated from ATI, _summa cum laude._ Regrettably, I was unable to attend his graduation, as I was in an important business meeting. This meeting concerned the coming demonstration of my company's new line of M3 rocket guidance systems, which my son helped develop as part of a joint research project between the military and university."

Whitley remembers the project his father is speaking of. The Multi-directional Miniature Missile rocket guidance system, or the M3 system for short, was the project that proved his mettle as an innovator. Working alongside a team of seasoned researchers and student-interns, he helped program the special program that was used in the IFF system. The missiles, using a specialized sonic scanning system he himself designed, could identify weapons that were manufactured with a specific serial number. The idea was that the missile could be guided towards hostiles using weapons that either didn't have a serial number or uses a black-listed one (as in stolen by the enemy). The aim of the project was to reduce friendly fire incidents on the battlefield. Whitley was proud to say that the likelihood of death by friendly fire has decreased by 90%, if the simulations were any indicator

"Now, I was invited by the military to observe a live-demonstration of this system in Mistral. But my schedule is packed, so I will not be able to go. As I missed out on his big day and, considering that he is essentially the creator of this weapon, I have decided that Whitley shall go in my stead." Jacques proudly declares before clapping his hands.

A round of applause erupts. It was almost deafening in their jubilation. As they celebrate the young man's achievement, a single thought popped into his mind. It was sudden, came out of nowhere, and he certainly didn't think it possible for him to think it. It summed up the young man's feelings toward his father in that moment, after being denied the parental pride he long wished for again.

 _Are you fucking kidding me!_

* * *

 **And with that, the first chapter of the Invincible Whitley Schnee comes to a close. Now I know what you're all thinking. Old Nacoma has lost it, casting Whitley Schnee, who is so reviled that he was nicknamed Shitley by the fandom, as the armored avenger. Why would he do such a thing? Well, first allow me to explain. Firstly, it was the decision of Brotherhoof to have Whitley become Iron Man. Secondly; they were able to explain their reasoning behind their choice, which I find to be both reasonable and understandable. Thirdly, as a writer, I have to remain objective when it comes to characters.**

 **That third reason goes hand-in-hand with my opinions about Whitley. People hate him for being a mini-Jacques, but when exactly did act like one? Sure, he ran his mouth off at Weiss after she lost her rights as heiress, but that is literally the first time he began to act maliciously, with his later actions further condemning him. But until that point, he had been acting rather supportive of his sister, even if it was probably all an act. I'm not sure how Rooster Teeth will develop his character, but for this story he will be taking an alternate route in character development, considering it's an AU. So, please keep an open mind and try to enjoy this story.**

 **Now, for those juicy bits about the story itself:**

 **Yes, I am using a calendar system for Remnant. In my opinion, the canon timeline is out of whack due to the lack of one. Why 2008 instead of 2014? Well, the MCU started in 2008, so I thought it would be a nice tribute. As for April 23** **rd** **, well, that is when my previous spring semester ended.**

 **In terms of chronology, the story begins two to three months before the events of "Ruby Rose", which occurred on June 18** **th** **, which is a week before Ruby's inaugural semester. Jaune has been Spider-Man for at least one month by this story's start.**

 **Yes, Pepper and Happy are engaged to be married, as they were indeed together in the comics.**

 **Antoinette Stark-Schnee is a gender-bent Tony Stark born in the wrong time. It made sense for Whitley to have some connection to the Starks, since he will become Iron Man.**

 **The Stane family situation is more complex than it looks. Expect interesting developments.**

 **No, VIC is not the same one from Red vs Blue. He was inspired by him, but it's not him. (Mainly 'cause I don't think there's a writer capable enough to mimic that amount of insanity)**

 **Just as with "The Amazing Jaune Arc", characters from other Rooster Teeth productions will appear. I'm talking Nomad, Red vs Blue, X-ray and Vav, and the recently released Gen: Lock.**

 **Yes, Whitley will have love interest. It will be someone you least expect.**

 **Alright, if you have questions, please post them in your review. Nacoma needs his inbox to be organized and all. Please take the time to read this story's sister fic, "The Amazing Jaune Arc" which is being written by Brotherhoof12.**

 **That's all, folks (Dammit, Spider-Ham). Now if you'll excuse me I've got some Spidey PS4 to play. Cheers and Excelsior.**


	2. The Pain in One's Heart

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **Also, for the sake of timeline consistency, here are the Schnee children's birthdays:**

 **Winter (December 24, 1985 KC: Current age 22)**

 **Weiss (February 12, 1991 KC: Current age 17)**

 **Whitley (August 29th, 1992 KC: Current age 15)**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter 2: The Pain in One's Heart**

* * *

 **Atlas, April 23** **rd** **, 2008 KC**

 **11:00 PM**

Pacing back and forth in his room, still dressed in his highly expensive tuxedo, Whitley Schnee couldn't help but think about the last several hours. He's glad that he had sound-proofed the room, because he doubt anyone would appreciate him stomping on the floor. After all, wooden tiles and fine leather shoes did not produce a pleasant sound, especially with the force of his stomps.

He was upset- no, scratch that, he is absolutely furious!

After everything he has done for his father, Weiss came out on top again. He put in four years of his life into his studies, sacrificed his social life, built inventions the company profited from, and what does he get as thanks? He got a free trip to Anima! To Anima of all places?! It was like winning a prize on those insufferable game shows Rhodey enjoys, the kind that everyone knows is rigged.

 _Am I a joke? Is that what I am to Father?! Is my existence some kind of sick joke to him, with my misery being the goddamn punchline?!_ These were the thoughts in his head. The self-loathing speculations of a boy denied the respect he has longed for so long.

He just couldn't understand the logic behind his father's decision. He has put more time and effort into being the perfect heir than Weiss ever has. He knew that the Dust market was more complicated than the simple laws of supply-and-demand. He doubts his sister even knows what supply and demand means, since all she does is wave that dumb sword of hers, thinking she can get her way by slaying a bunch of monsters. When is she going to learn that life is not a damn fairy tale!

Using his right foot, he kicks his bed. An explosion of pain erupts in his big toe. Whitley was not unfamiliar with pain and he thinks stubbing a toe counts among the worst ways to hurt oneself. He sits at his desk and takes off his shoe and examines his toe. It looks a bit red, but it'll heal in time. He hobbles to his bed and jumps onto the mattress, landing on his back.

He's glad nobody saw his little tantrum.

"Are you done with your little hissy-fit? If you're not, please don't kick the computer server." VIC asks, looking down on the boy with his sensor. "Unlike your bed, I actually do have feelings."

Okay, he's glad someone with a physical body didn't see his little tantrum. He groans then asks. "How long were you watching?"

"The minute you walked in, slammed the door, and practically shouted 'Daddy, why won't you love me!" VIC replies, unsure how to handle a temperamental teenager. "I take it something happened at the party?"

"Well, if you must know, Father actually congratulated me on my graduation, and he apologized for not coming to the ceremony." Whitley replies.

"Well, that's nice, I guess Jacques isn't-"

Whitley Cuts him off. "And his way of apologizing is to send me off to Anima for something he could have done himself."

"…I take back what I was about to say"

A silence settles between the boy and the AI, a very uncomfortable one. Neither knows what they could say that could relieve the tension. Whitley, being the teenager he is, opts to go for the long, sullen silence. VIC, being an AI, calculates his options, running through multiple scenarios and analyzing their outcomes. After a few seconds, he decides upon the only course of action that had no negative repercussions.

He pulls up a cat video. A hologram appears, showing a small kitten jumping up and down, while an exercise video plays in the background. Simulated laughter fills the room, shattering the silence like a hammer on glass. Whitley doesn't find the act relieving, bringing his hands to his face, muffling a groan. VIC never could read the room.

Eventually, he couldn't take the laughter anymore and threatens his obnoxious roommate. "If you don't stop, I _will_ upload you into a scroll and never use it."

The hologram deactivates, showing that VIC is taking the threat seriously. "I was just trying to make the situation feel less awkward."

"Well, mission accomplished. I feel annoyed now, thank you so much for making me feel this way." Whitley testily remarks. He immediately regrets giving the AI his cat video privileges back.

"Alright, fine, sheesh. If it'll make you feel you any better, I've got some news on that lawyer-guy."

That makes Whitley feel better, but only slightly. Until he hears what VIC has to tell him, he'll reserve judgment on whether it counts as good news or not. After today, he's learned that it's better not to build up his expectations. Build them high enough and they'll just be toppled down by the wrecking ball known as life. "Alright, tell me what you've found out." He asks.

VIC lists what he found out. "Well, turns out "he" is a "she", sorry, but she sounded really mannish on the scroll. Her name's Connie Ferrari. She's a lawyer working at Ferrari & Hindle associates, which is run by her father. She's 27, likes long walks on the beach, and prefers to drink her coffee without crème. She also has a huge crush on Simon Williams, calling him, quote, yummy enough to eat."

Whitley just stares at the mobile camera that serves as VIC's eyes, staring at it unamused. "Okay, I asked if she's legitimate… not for you to read her entire Facespace page, Also, TMI on that last bit!"

"Oh, she's totes legit, no question. Top of her class at Vale City U, passed the Atlas bar exam with flying colors, and her father was actually one of your grandfather's lawyers, so there's a connection."

 _Okay, I guess that means she's on the level_. Whitley thinks, surprised at the information presented.

He knows his grandfather hired many lawyers for the company, but he never thought that one of them would become the executor of his grandmother's estate. A role which seems to have passed from father to daughter, if what VIC says is true. "I'll call tomorrow and schedule a meeting, first thing in the morning."

He moves to the closet and takes out his fine-linen pajamas. "But, first, I need to get some sleep."

He walks to over to the bathroom door and opens it. A few minutes pass before he walks out, dressed in his pajamas. "Alright, V, power down for the night. I'm hitting the hay."

VIC complies with the command and goes into sleep mode. Whitley, feeling much happier than he has all day, lies down on his bed and pulls the sheets over his body. After the long day he's had, he could use a good night's sleep.

* * *

 _Bounding down the vast hallway, seven-year old Whitley Schnee was feeling excited. Today was his big sister's birthday, and he couldn't wait to see how she reacts to his present. He had been working on it for days, reworking some mechanisms and making sure the thing worked on the first try. He hasn't told anyone what it was, except for his grandma, who had helped him with this project._

 _She promised to keep it a secret. A secret he hopes Weiss will love._

 _The little boy beams at the thought, his grin being so blindingly bright it could be seen from space. It's a shame that Atlas didn't have cameras in space to prove it. He looks down at the small gift in his tiny hands, which was neatly wrapped in white wrapping paper and topped with a bright red bow. The boy was proud of the wrapping, since he didn't ask any grown-ups to help him. He is a big boy now, after all._

 _Seconds pass and he soon finds himself standing at the door to the main dining room, where the party was being held. Shaking in excitement, he jumps and reaches out for the doorknob. Holding on to the metallic knob, hanging just a few inches off the ground, the boys shifts his weight about. He moves like a pendulum, using the momentum to turn the knob. It works as he is rewarded with the click of the lock moving back. The door creaks open. He releases his hold and lands on his feet on the floor._

" _Where were you?!" He hears someone shout. It sounds like his mommy, but he has never heard her sound so angry before. He didn't even know she could get mad._

" _What does it matter? I'm here now, so, what's the big deal?" He hears another voice calmly say. It sounded calm, but it felt as though the voice was trying to restrain itself. It also sounded like his daddy._

 _He peeks inside, hiding behind the open door. He sees his mommy, slightly red-faced and holding a strange bottle in one hand, poking his daddy in the chest with the other. He also sees Weiss standing close by, watching the argument with tearful eyes, with their sister, Winter, trying to wipe her eyes with a tissue. Surprisingly, he doesn't see Grandma in the room, since she promised she would be here. Klein, or any of the other servants, was also nowhere to be seen._

" _What's the big deal?! The deal is that you promised Weiss,_ your _daughter, that you'd be here on time. The party started over three hours ago, and you just arrived! All the guests have left!" Mommy shouts, causing him to cower a bit at the tone she was using._

" _Well, I'm sorry, that I let such a trivial detail escape my mind!" His Daddy shoots back, swatting Mommy's prodding away._

" _TRIVIAL, it's your daughter's birthday, the day we celebrate her coming into this world and you call it "trivial"!" Mommy shouts, outraged at the insinuation._

 _Daddy crosses his arms, refusing to look her in the eye. "What does it matter? She'll just have another one next year."_

" _That's not the point, Jacques, and you know it! The point is that this isn't the first time you've done this; you weren't there at Winter's parties or Weiss', not even for Whitley's! So explain to me what is so important that would make you miss out on your children's lives!" She demands, face red with anger._

" _The family's reputation is the point! I don't have time for childish parties when I have a Multi-billion Lien company to run! The Schnee name is far too important…" Jacques tries to explain, face starting to turn red._

" _And that's another thing; it's always about the name! Schnee this, Schnee that! It's like all you care about is the power that name gives you! Well, I have some news for you. YOU ARE NOT EVEN A REAL SCHNEE!" Mommy shouts angrily, spit flying into her husband's face. "In fact, here's what I think you are…"_

 _She erupts into a tirade, bombarding the man's face with obscenity after obscenity. Whitley knew what those words mean, having heard them from his father, grandmother, and sometimes, Aunt Pepper. They were "no-no" words, the kind that children should never say in the presence of an adult. However, he is learning new words from his mother. Judging from his older sister's increasingly panicking face, these new words were a step above whatever ones they had heard in the past. But what was so bad about "Fudge", "Cut", and "Coke"? Did he hear those words right? He'll have to ask his grandma what they mean._

 _As Willow continues her verbal assault, her husband's face begins to burn red, and it seems his eyes do as well. With each slur that is directed his way, his body began to shake violently with rage. That rage crosses the threshold as he pushes his wife back, nearly knocking her down to the floor. His sisters stare at him with frightened faces, as though fearing they would be next._

" _WHY DO YOU THINK I MARRIED YOU?!" He roars, teeth snarling and mustache bristling. "Do you think I actually loved you? A contemptuous and spoiled, little bitch like you! I loved your name and all the benefits that came with it! You want to know what I feel when I look at you, Willow? I feel absolutely nothing. You mean nothing to me. You are nothing to me. YOU ARE NOTHING!"_

 _Jacques slaps Willow across the face. She reels back, almost falling to her knees. Touching her reddened cheek, tears start to form in her eyes. Jacques just stands there, glaring down at her. "Just be grateful I let you stay in MY house… And don't you ever speak to me in front of my children like that again!"_

 _Nursing his hand, he looks to the door and sees Whitley standing there. The two make eye contact. The little boy wants to look away, but the look his father's giving him tells him he shouldn't. It tells him that if he looks away, something bad would happen to him._

 _"Come here, boy." He demands, beckoning the boy over with a wagging finger._

 _Whitley complies, knowing the consequences should he refuse. He walks to his daddy, the gift still in his hands, all while looking down at the floor. "Look up at me when I'm talking to you, boy." The man coolly commands._

 _Whitley does as he's told. He sees his father's cold eyes bearing down on him, freezing him in place. The boy had never felt such coldness before, which says something, considering they live on the coldest continent in the world. "Do you know why I hit mommy?" His father asks._

 _Lost for words, Whitley dumbly shakes his head._

 _Jacques bends down, looking his son in the eyes. "Do you think I shouldn't have hit mommy?"_

 _Whitley gulps, not sure how to answer such a question. He voices his confusion. "I don't know."_

 _Jacques smirks and rises up, saying. "Good answer. Never question me."_

 _He walks away from his son, making his way to the door. He closes the door behind him with a thunderous thud, which echoes through the room. Whitley looks at his mother, whom also looks back at him. Something in her eyes confuses the boy, being that it was something he's never seen before. It looked as though she wasn't looking at him, but through him. She too walks away, all while taking a drink from the bottle in her hand. She leaves the room as well, leaving Whitley alone with his sisters._

 _He looks to them. Winter was hugging Weiss closely to her, the girl having buried her crying face into her stomach. Whitley looks at his gift and smiles softly, knowing just what would cheer Weiss. He walks up to them and tugs on Weiss' dress._

" _Leave me alone, Whitley…" Weiss warns, not even turning to look at him._

 _Whitley holds the gift out to her. "I have a present for you."_

" _I said. Leave." Weiss says, her grip tightening on their sister's waist._

" _Please, open it. You'll like what you'll see…" Whitley presses on._

" _Go away…" She grounds out, anger building up in her voice._

" _But, if you just-"He tries to say._

" _JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" She snaps, flinging an arm at him, before running past him._

 _However, her hand connects with the gift, which flies out of his hands. The little box sails through the air, the boy watching with bated breath and widened eyes. For what seems like an eternity, he watches the gift he had worked so hard on fly through the air in a descending arc. He doesn't even notice the crying Weiss leaving the room, with their sister following after her. He doesn't even hear the door open and close._

 _The gift crashes onto a wall. A shattering sound is heard as it rebounds off the wall, dropping unceremoniously onto the polished, tiled floor. Whitley runs to it and rips off the wrapping paper and bow, revealing the small cardboard box beneath. Hoping against hope that his present isn't broken too badly, he opens it._

 _He sees shattered glass, broken ceramic and bent gears. The inside of the box was wet, soaked by water and covered with miniature white flakes. Staring up at him from inside the box was a picture of his smiling family, whom he saw sneering and frowning only moments before. It was a Snow Globe, one that contained a photo of his family._

 _He had spent the last week building it. He even put a music box inside it, one that would play the lullaby their mother sang to them as babies. The music box now lies soaked and bent beyond all recognition._

 _Whitley cries, alone and miserable. He would remember this day. It was the day the illusion he held about his family finally shattered, when he finally saw the anger and resentment that simmered beneath those mockingly happy faces._

 _He also learned an important lesson that day. Never question or else punishment awaits._

* * *

Whitley wakes up, forcing his eyes open. It was dark, nearly pitch-black, which means it is either still late at night or extremely early in the morning. Rubbing his eyes, he feels that they are wet, with dried streaks running down his face. He sighs. _Damn it, I thought I was over this._

He had cried in his sleep. He has tried so hard not to show weakness and his own body betrays him in his sleep. He hasn't cried in years, even with so many close calls and the temptation to do so. He had thought his sleep would give sweet dreams, but instead his mind chose to play back one of the worst experiences of his life, one that belonged to a list that is much too long in his opinion.

Having enough of the dark, he speaks up, "Wakey, Wakey, V."

The lights turn on as simulated yawning sounds off. Whitley knows VIC has no body, so he thinks the yawning was a bit much. He asks the AI. "What time is it?"

"If I had the capacity to feel tiredness, I would've told you to just check your phone. Seeing as I don't, I can tell you that the time is 5:18 AM." VIC reports, making sure to have his displeasure heard. Apparently he can't feel exhaustion, but he can still feel an emotion as complex as annoyance, much to Whitley's amusement.

But then he remembers the time. _4:30? I usually get up around 5:30 for morning coffee. I guess some habits can't be quit cold-turkey._

He honestly did think that he could wake up later than he usually does now. It seems that four years of regulated sleeping has made him incapable of sleeping no more than five hours. He hopes he can remedy that problem soon, probably around a month or so. He has no reason to wake up early now that he's out of college, so he could sleep till eleven for all he cares, especially when he doesn't have any plans for the day. However, he did have plans today, ones that were forced upon him very suddenly.

"Alright, let's go over my schedule for the day." He asks.

VIC hesitates before saying. "…Yeah, I didn't make one."

Whitley nearly shouts his frustration, but his throat feels too dry to strain them. He simply asks calmly. "Why didn't you?"

"Well, because you didn't ask me to… and no, that wasn't sarcasm." The AI responds truthfully.

While he may be a highly-functional, semi-self-aware artificial intelligence, he still needed instructions on what task he should perform. It was a sub-routine Whitley had written into his programming, and it has kept him from going full Arnie Schwartz on the world. Not that he wouldn't do it anyway, since no more world meant no more cats and no more cats meant no more cat videos. Plus, he just loves humanity too much to go through with it.

"Alright, I want you to compile a schedule for today. I want it precise, well-organized, and with no periods of inactivity in-between hours. I'm out of school, so I need something to do." Whitley commands, rising up from his bed.

He is going to the staff kitchen. Hopefully there was someone there that could make him a nice breakfast. He can't cook, but he sure wasn't going to use a microwave anytime soon, considering he has used one nearly every night when studying. In fact, if nobody is in the kitchen, he'll just brew a nice cup of coffee for himself. He's had a lot of practice over the years, with Rhodey teaching him along the way. The man once told him that the ladies appreciate a man who knows his coffee.

Whitley isn't interested in finding the right girl now. After today, his focus will solely be on securing his right as the one and only heir to the Schnee fortune. He can worry about securing his lineage later, after he has fully consolidated his position. Plus, his parent's relationship has really turned put off the idea of romance. Much like his sister's dream, romance is just another childish thing that can only be found in fairy tales.

He puts on his slippers, takes out his scroll from his drawer, activates it flashlight function, and makes his way toward the door. He stops mid-step and tells VIC, "Oh and I want that schedule ready before I come back."

"No problem, Boss. By the time you get back, your schedule will be so packed you won't have time to take a piss. So would like me to schedule your potty breaks too?" VIC replies, adding. "And that last bit _was_ sarcasm, by the way."

Whitley groans, not in the mood for the virtual consciousness' lip. He opens the door and enters the hallway. He closes the door quietly, knowing that his family was sleeping. He didn't do it out of thoughtfulness; he just didn't want to deal with his family so early in the morning. He looks both sides of the vast hallway and sees neither family nor any of the servants in sight. Once he is sure he is alone, he activates the small but bright flashlight on his scroll and begins walking towards the kitchen.

His steps are soft and quiet, cushioned by his slippers and muffled by the floor's fine carpeting. Along the way, he comes across certain doors belonging to members of his family. The boy is glad it is still night time, as he can finally show his feelings toward his co-called family. At Winter' bedroom, he sneers and blows a silent raspberry. At Weiss', he glares and makes a particularly rude gesture with his fingers. He ignores his parent's room, not wanting to even acknowledge the woman he calls mother.

His father sleeps in a separate room, one very close to his study. He would never sleep in the same bed as that woman, not after admitting the truth of their marriage. Whitley is actually glad about that, since it means he doesn't have to draw his father's ire, considering the man's unnatural ability to know everything that happens inside the house.

Eventually, he finds his way out of the hallway, cutting across the grand staircase overlooking the grand entrance hall. He looks down to see that no servants were on the bottom floor, allowing him to continue with his impromptu check. He stops near the window and observes the broken moon. As a child, he and his grandmother would often use a telescope to count the number of fragments in the satellite's debris field.

He often wondered what happened to have had such a large chunk of the moon to shatter. His grandmother told him the theory of how an asteroid had crashed into the moon, causing its fractured appearance. She'd even tell him that it was caused by the gods, as recounted in a fairy tale that she once told him and his sisters. Whatever the reason, all he knows is that his broken world has a moon that matches it. It is darkly poetic, in a way. He resumes his journey to the kitchen.

Entering another hallway, located in the east wing of the castle, he picks up the pace, knowing that the rooms were empty guest rooms. The Schnee never have visitors and for many reasons, as well. Soon, he finds himself before the kitchen entrance. He pushes back the door and enters the room, with motion-sensors triggering the ceiling lights. Looking around, he notices the many new additions that have been added. When he was in college, he spent most of his time there living in a single dorm room, only coming back home over the weekends, so he hardly spent time anywhere else in the castle.

The kitchen was as polished and organized as he remembers, having the same white wall-paint and the pristinely buffed blue tiled floor. The various cooking stations were clean and free of clutter, no doubt the work of the efficient cooking staff, Atlesian discipline at its best. It is also empty, not a single soul in sight.

 _Coffee it is, then._

Whitley begins searching the pantry for Coffee grounds. After a few seconds, he finds his favorite brand, _Indulgers,_ which uses ground coffee beans grown only in southern Vale. He goes to the refrigerator, taking out a jug of milk. He then finds some cinnamon on the spices rack of one of the cooking stations. He is going to make some Cappuccino.

But first, he needs to find the espresso machine.

"Looking for this, young master?" A calm and refined voice asks behind him.

Turning around, he is surprised to see Klein Sieben, the head butler and longtime servant of his family. To his befuddlement, the balding man was already dressed in his uniform. Whitley wonders if the man slept in it. "Uhm, yes, Thank you, Klein."

"I presume you are preparing for your journey to Mistral?" The man asks, placing the espresso machine on the counter next to him. "If you like, I could prepare a brew for you."

"No, thank you, but no." He politely refuses.

"It is no trouble, sir. My duties do not begin until six, so I am free to do whatever." He insists, before drawing a cup. "Besides, I too had the same idea."

Whitley relents, letting the man take over. At least he didn't have to make it himself.

* * *

After their beverages were brewed, Employer and employee took a seat at one of the many tables in the kitchen. Sitting across from each other, neither of them feel the need to make a toast or engage in conversation. Klein takes a sip of his cup, savoring the taste of the brew he had prepared.

After stirring his cup, Whitley takes a sip of his Cappuccino. The taste of flavored, heated water bombards his tongue. His taste buds erupt in joy, savoring the added cinnamon mixed with just a dash of sugar.

The boy shrugs, "Eh, not bad."

"Your words do me honor, sir." Klein replies before drinking his own.

Silence settles between the two, as they drink their coffee. They had never done this before, sitting together like equals. It was really awkward in Whitley's opinion, since for as long as he could remember, Klein had always been the one serving his family at the dining table, and never sitting there with them. It was supposed to be like that. Him, a servant, eating at the same table as those he's paid to serve? It was improper.

But his duties don't start until the stroke of six. Whitley brings up his scroll and sees that it is ten minutes to six. He could kill the time with some small talk, but he didn't know what to say. He looks over at Klein, who was idly tapping the sides of his cup with his fingers, patiently waiting for the clock to strike six. He notices the boy staring at him and asks. "Is there something you wish to ask of me, sir?"

Whitley couldn't help but feel like a deer caught in headlights. He gives out a very rushed "No," which he unfortunately made to sound both equally rude and panicked.

Klein simply laughs. "My, my, the great Whitley Schnee, master of wit, rendered silent by the common help."

Whitley flushes from embarrassment, unable to come up with any kind of witty retort. The butler smiles and speaks. "I did not mean to offend, sir. It was simply a joke, a sort of a way for us to start breaking bread, as it were."

The boy sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I just thought I have some time to myself, is all."

Klein raises a thick eyebrow and places his cup upon the table. He folds his hands together and asks. "What troubles you, master Whitley?"

Taking a final sip of his cappuccino, Whitley too lays his cup down. He takes a deep breath and exhales. He looks his butler in the eye, and asks very seriously. "Klein, does father ever talk about me?"

Klein looks at the young man, noting his posture and face. His thin, white eyebrows were furrowed, his light blue eyes questioning but hurt, and he had the faint beginnings of a frown. He wanted to say something encouraging to the boy, but he didn't want to lie, knowing the boy didn't the ego boost. What he did deserve was the truth, and Klein is going to give it.

"Well…" He begins, pausing to find the right words to say. He resumes when he finds them. "…It's complicated, sir. I can honestly say that your father does speak _of_ you, but never _about_ you. When people mention your accomplishments, he makes his pride known like any respectful father should, but it seems that he only does so for appearance's sake."

 _Yeah, that sounds about right._ The boy thinks, feeling a well of disappointment starting to build in his gut.

Klein notices the boy was on the verge of a frown. Very quickly, he closes his eyes. When they open, his light brown eyes are now a very rich shade of pink. He also feels a lot more bashful as well. He tells the boy, "But then again, I'm but a humble butler. How would the hired help know anything about their employers. I'm paid to serve dishes and clean rooms, not to speak ill of my betters."

Whitley's frown begins to waver.

Klein's eyes close and open again, this time his eyes becoming a burning red. His bashfulness melted away, a feeling of grouchiness overcoming him. "But then again, if he heard half the things I've said about him over the years, I'd be lucky to even find work if he fires me. For a man with thick pockets, he's remarkably thin-skinned." He chuckles menacingly.

Whitley begins to feel something build up inside him, trying desperately to keep it contained. But he knew what's going to happen next and he doesn't know if he can hold it in after that.

Grumpy-Klein continues, "Or maybe it's something else? I notice he tends to have a stiff back. Maybe I should call a gastroenterologist? It might improve the man's attitude if a doctor pulled out whatever's crammed up his a-"

"Okay, stop, stop!" Whitley cries, barely holding in his laughter. "I think that's enough, Klein."

The butler closes his eyes, opening them again to reveal his normal brown irises. He looks at the laughing Schnee, whose arms were wrapped around his own stomach, a vain attempt at trying to smother the laughter. The laugh itself was both controlled and raucous, compounded by loud snorts and long gasps.

"I think this is the first time I've heard you laugh in years. It sounds like you've holding in a lot of humor." Klein observes, smiling at the display.

Whitley's laugh soon cracks, going into a coughing fit. Klein was right, he hasn't laughed like that in years. Sure there was the polite giggle or the pity laugh he gave whenever Zeke told a bad joke, but he hasn't genuinely laughed in a long time. Now that he thought about it, he hasn't had a single good laugh since…

 _Since Grandma died,_ He realizes pensively.

Whatever joy he was feeling left, with a deep sadness settling in its place. After his sister's disastrous birthday party, it was hard to feel any joy in the castle. He kept to himself, as did his sisters. His mother began drinking her problems away. His father devoted more time to work than his family, becoming a non-entity in his children's lives.

But what did Grandma Toni do? She visited more often, taking the time to spend more time with her grandchildren than she did her daughter. She would tell them stories about their grandfather and how they met, and how they would drive her mother up the wall with their antics. She would braid Winter's hair and give her relationship advice. She'd humor Weiss with a few tea parties and hold mini-concerts.

And what did she do for Whitley? She nurtured his interest in machines, helped him with homework, and would sometimes read to him the books she had read when she was a child. Sometimes, she would sneak a vintage issue of _Captain Vale_ into Storytime, entertaining the boy with tales of a Valean superhero who could make his enemies yield with his mighty, unbreakable shield. In short, she was the parent that the Schnee children needed during a very scary time.

And then she died, with her death being the final nail in the coffin for the Schnee progeny's bond. Her grandchildren reacted to her passing as many would expect. Winter became more strict and disciplined, picking up the responsibility of raising her siblings. She and Weiss fully bonded, supporting and caring for each other as only sisters could. Then Winter joined the military, Weiss chose to become a huntress, and soon both will be away from this cold tomb they once called home.

And Whitley, what happened to him? His sisters tried for a while, but they couldn't find anything to bond over and eventually casted him aside. It was around that time that Pepper stepped in and tried to raise him as his mother should. Now, he was fifteen, fresh out of college, and wondering what he should do now.

"What should I do?" He thinks aloud.

"I'm sorry, what was that, sir?" Klein asks, having been worried by the boy's sudden silence.

Whitley catches himself and reassures the man that nothing is wrong. He looks to the clock and sees that it is now 6'oclock. Turning to Klein, he tells him. "It's time for you to start working, Klein."

"Indeed it is. Enjoy your trip to Anima, master Whitley" Klein says, rising from his seat, taking both his and Whitley's empty cups with him. He stops and looks at the boy with an encouraging smile. "And congratulations on your graduation."

Whitley nods in appreciation, giving the man a small, thankful grin. He feels slightly better now. He rises from his chair and begins making his way back to his room. He has some preparing to do. He needs to take a shower, brush his teeth, find the appropriate clothes for his trip, and make a call to one Connie Ferrari.

After that, he's got an airship to catch.

* * *

 **Ferrari & Hindle Associates, Atlas Offices**

 **10:00 AM**

Sitting behind her desk, 25 year-old attorney-at-law Connie Ferrari reviews the latest appeals brought to her attention. It is all she can do for now, for she is expecting a call today. The call being Whitley Schnee, the youngest grandchild of her father's deceased client, Antoinette "Toni" Schnee. She had tried to reach the young man yesterday, but her call was received by an automatic answering machine, one that she swore asked if she was single. She didn't answer the question. She's an attractive woman, and definitely single, but she's not going to advertise those facts freely. (She's saving herself for that stud-muffin of an actor, Simon Williams)

Her scroll rings. She picks up and answers. "Hello, Ferrari & Hindle Associates, Connie Ferrari speaking."

" _Hello, this is Whitley Schnee. I was told your office tried to contact me yesterday. From what I gather, there is an inheritance for me?"_ A boy's voice asks over the line.

"Before we begin, I have to verify you're indeed the person in question. Mrs. Schnee prepared a test for you to prove your identity." She tells the boy, who accepts the terms.

Putting the call on hold, she walks over to the wall adjacent to her desk. Hanging on the wall is a framed painting of a Vacoan sunset, which she removes, revealing a safe. She presses her right thumb on a tiny screen, which scans her finger print. Verifying her print, it asks for a code, which she enters on the keypad below the scanner. Upon verifying the code, the safe opens, revealing rows of various, neatly-organized folders within. She rifles through the folders, before finding the Schnee files. She pulls out a folder labeled "Schnee, Whitley."

She closes the safe and locks it, placing the painting back in its spot on the wall. She returns to her desk and puts her scroll on speaker, continuing the call. As she opens the folder's contents, she explains to the boy. "Alright, if you are indeed who you claim to be, then you should be able to answer these questions correctly. Mrs. Schnee was very adamant that only her grandson would answer them. Before we proceed, I must warn you that this call is being recorded, so that it may be used as evidence against you, should you prove to be a fraud. Do you understand and accept these terms?"

" _If I didn't accept them, I would've just hanged up."_ The boy replies rather smartly.

 _If we didn't have these questions, that snarky response would have been enough to identify him,_ Connie observes. Whoever was on the other line, they certainly had that Stark-Snark her father told her of. She speaks again. "Let us begin with the first question."

She reads off the first one. "One day, when you were only five, you and Weiss started arguing about the television while visiting your grandmother. What exactly were the two of you arguing about?"

" _We were arguing over what to watch. Weiss wanted to watch Sheena, Queen of the Jungle marathon and I wanted to watch SquareBob Spongejeans. Grandma wanted to watch Zaplock."_

Connie looks over the paper. The caller gave almost every detail to the letter. She reads off question two. "When you turned six, your grandma brought you a present. What was it and what did you do with it?"

" _She bought me a Hammertech Computer. I spent all my time after the party taking it apart, trying to learn how it works… and how to make it work better."_ The voice answers, though she swears she could hear a chuckle. Then again, most of what Hammer Industries made was a joke, so it was understandable.

"Finally, for Weiss' tenth birthday party, I helped you build a gift for her. What was it?" Connie asks, reading the final question.

For a few seconds, all she hears is silence. She wonders if the person hanged the scroll up or if the line had been lost. Before she turns her own scroll off, she is given an answer.

"… _It was a snow globe. One I designed and she helped build. It had a photo of the family in it, and a musical box that played a lullaby."_ The boy she now positively identifies as Whitley Schnee answers. His answer sounded far too somber in her opinion, but it wasn't her place to ask why. She is simply fulfilling the last requests of the boy's grandmother.

"Thank you for calling, Mr. Schnee. As you are probably aware, my father was the executor of your grandparent's estate. He retired last month and passed his role onto me. Now, the purpose of my call was to schedule a proper meeting to sort out the paperwork. When is a good time for you?"

She hears Whitley mumbling. After a few seconds, he replies. _"I'm afraid that I'm booked for the next few days. My schedule is free after the beginning of May, so perhaps we can schedule a meeting for the first weekend of the month?"_

Connie again places the call on hold, scrolling her scroll for her daily planner app. She looks over her schedule for May and sees that she is definitely free for the requested time period. She speaks into the scroll. "Yes, I can schedule a meeting for May 2nd. Is that agreeable with you?"

" _Yes, the time is perfect. Thank you…"_ She hears the boy's voice trail off. _"Before I hang up, can you tell me anything about my Grandmother's will?"_

"I'm afraid the full details of the will can only be divulged during our meeting. You should receive it after signing all the appropriate paperwork. Thank you, Mr. Schnee, and I look forward to our meeting." She tells the young Schnee.

" _As do I. Thank you for your time, Ms. Ferrari. Have a nice day."_ She hears him close his end of the line. She presses the end button on her scroll, ending the call.

Depositing her cell phone away in her pocket, the woman picks up the folder, placing it inside her purse. While most people would think putting such confidential materials in such an unsecure place was irresponsible, she however was not. What those people didn't know was the purse was also a gun, a gift from a huntsman she had represented some time ago. She could defend herself.

She looks over the stacks of paperwork on her desk. She sighs, knowing she'll be stuck in her office well beyond her hours. She resumes her work.

* * *

"Alright, it's done. In exactly one week from now, I'll be receiving grandma's inheritance." Whitley declares, an almost-excited grin stretching across his face.

"And now it's time for you to leave for Mistral. I'm so jealous of you." VIC tells the boy.

"You say that whenever I leave the castle." The boy reminds the AI.

"Oh, rub it in, why don't you?" The AI retorts. To which the boy just shakes his head.

Whitley looks around his room, observing for anything out of place. The bed was made, thanks to the servants. His clothes, all chosen by him, were packed, thanks to the servants. VIC's server was clean and free of dust, thanks to him. (It was one of the few things he didn't entrust to other people). He's taken a shower, brushed his teeth, and is now dressed in the most expensive-looking black business suit he owns. (He would've gone for white, but he felt a black suit would really draw attention to his eyes.)

All in All, he looks the part of a respectable businessman. It's the closest he'll get to being one for a while.

"Alright, V, I'm leaving now. Here are some things I need to ask of you. Firstly, do not crank-call Father. Second, do not crank-call Justin Hammer. Thirdly, and most importantly, crank-call Weiss as many times as you want." He says, treating the AI like an unruly child who needs… rules.

"Yes, MOM, whatever you say." Vic childishly retorts, acting very much his actual age.

With that out of the way, Whitley takes his suitcase and exits the room, leaving VIC alone once again. Knowing that his creator and unofficial warden will be gone for a week, the AI immediately does the one thing he always does whenever his creator leaves; crank-calling his father.

"Silly rich kid, rules are for meat bags." VIC chuckles before calling Jacques' personal scroll number.

This is going to be a great week.

* * *

After calling that lawyer, Whitley's day got exceedingly better with each passing hour. He didn't run into his sister on his way out, since she left the night before. He called Pepper and Happy, and much to his pleasure, found that his father had indeed given them the vacation time he had asked for. He didn't call Rhodey, being considerate of the man's desire to celebrate his niece's graduation with his family. The drive to his family's private airship was surprisingly quick, with traffic being very light. Today was starting off great, in his opinion.

The airship took off without problem and now he is on a five-hour flight to Argus. The Ship is to land at the Atlesian base near the City. He checks his scroll, which he put on Airship-mode, and sees that it has been close to three and a half hours since take-off. He should be nearing the base soon.

The ship runs into some turbulent winds, shaking the cabin. Whitley grips the arms of his chair. He's always hated flying. Experts say that flying is the safest way to travel, statistically speaking, but he wonders just how many of those "experts" have actually been on an airship.

 _{Apologies, Mr. Schnee, we have been running into strong winds, shouldn't last long.}_ The pilot relays over the intercom.

The shaking continues, much to the boy's irritation. Looking around, he watches as the small compressed cabin vibrates from the strong winds. It's making nervous, and the last thing he needs is to lose his nerves before the big presentation. He wasn't told when exactly the demonstration will be. Apparently, he will be given more details by the base commander.

 _What was her name again? Caroline Cordovin?_ He muses, trying to recall where he had heard that name before.

The cabin shakes, shaking him from his thoughts. He growls, having half a mind to march into the cockpit and chew the pilot out. But, then again, the last thing a pilot operating a flying airship needs is for the passenger to distract him with a complaint. That was a surefire way to cause the ship to crash. The pilot gets a pass. For now, that is.

He looks out the window, hoping to find something that could take his mind off his anger. The second he does, he is bombarded by the rays of the afternoon sun. Anima and Solitas are in different time zones, so 8:30 in Atlas would be 12:30 in Argus. Whitley didn't mind the time change, as it gave him what many would call "one hell of a view".

And what a view it is, with the rich azure sea going off for miles, with the horizon coming to meet with the equally blue sky. He didn't know where the sea ends and where the sky begins. Above the sea, the afternoon sun blazes brightly, reflected in the water. He wonders what the sunset would look like. He had heard that an Animan sunrise and sunset was a sight to behold. If he recalled, the ancient kingdom of Hoshi once revered the sun as a symbol, displaying it proudly on their banners.

He wonders what it would be like to sail through the air, with the use of an airship. He tries to imagine the feeling of gliding through the air, to feel the rush of the wind upon his face as his body sails through the air at breakneck speeds. It was a nice image, but still just a fantasy. Man can't soar thought the air, he can only fall. The rush of powerful winds tear faces apart, not caress gently like a lover. At breakneck speeds, a man's neck would break. Life isn't a fairy tale, after all.

The cabin shakes again, rattling him from his daydream. He frowns, unable to relax amidst the rattling in the airship. Falling through the air is beginning to sound more desirable than this torture, in his opinion.

 _{Mr. Schnee, we are about twenty minutes away from Argus Base.}_ The pilot announces over the intercom.

Whitley rejoices, a wave of relief washing over him. _Twenty minutes. Thank the Gods… I only have to spend twenty more minutes in this flying metal coffin!_

The rest of his trip is spent gripping his chair with a vice-grip, trying to control his chittering teeth and cursing the bastard who ever discovered powered flight. He hopes they died a very humiliating death.

* * *

 **Argus Base, Argus, Anima**

 **1:52 PM AWT (Anima Western-Coastal Time)**

After being given clearance to land, Whitley's airship flew toward airfield 3 to land. Whitley notices a large procession on the airfield, with Argus personnel standing at attention in their uniforms, as a brass band plays in the background. Further back, he notices that a massive crowd has gathered, with some soldiers standing guard over them. They look to be cheering and holding signs, many of which he could not read.

Of the signs he could read, he could make out a few with messages such as "Welcome to Argus!", "SDC = FTW!", and, of course, the ever-present "Fuck U, Schnee". He isn't the least bit surprised by that last one, knowing that half of these people weren't cheering for him. In fact, he could spot a few who were jeering and hurling insults at him. He sees that the hecklers are mostly Faunus, but that didn't bother him at all. He didn't care much for their opinion.

He then notices the base has a red carpet rolled out for him, a sort of gaudy welcome mat to really make him feel at home. Upon this extending carpet, there stood three people stood upon. Two were very tall and broad-shouldered Men, whom were dressed in the same uniform as the other soldiers and looked scarily similar to the other, with no distinguishable traits differentiating them. Were they twins, perhaps?

The third person was much harder to identify. They were short, about the height of a child, and he actually did think them a child until he noticed the uniform. He also notices the shortly cut and immaculately combed silver hair, which suggested the child-sized individual was much older than he thought. Whether they were male or female was something he'll have to see for himself.

The ship lands, with the jet engines deactivating just as it touches the ground. Whitley unbuckles his seatbelt and rises from his chair, folding out the creases in his black suit as he approaches the ship's airlock. He stops at the exit, waiting for the crew to open it.

He cracks his neck and whispers, "Showtime..."

The airlock door opens and he steps forward, descending down the stairs prepared for the airship. He gives a smile and waves, relishing the attention of the masses. However, he notes that the applause is less enthusiastic than he likes. Walking down the red carpet, he approaches the short person. Up close, he could finally make out that they were indeed a she. He also observes that she has more medals than her comrades, indicating that she is the highest-ranking officer in charge.

He addresses the small woman. "Commander Cordovin, I presume?"

Cordovin beams at the recognition, puffing her chest out in pride. She gives a crisp salute and greets the young man. "Welcome, Mr. Schnee, to Argus. It is an honor to have an individual of your caliber in our base. If you would follow me to my quarters, I shall brief you on the details of the coming demonstration."

She turns on her heels and directs the men standing with her to collect Whitley's luggage from the airship. The two salute in unison, marching off together as well, in fully synchronized fashion.

It may have been his mind playing tricks on him, but the boy could've sworn he heard the soldiers chant "Atlas, Atlas, and Hup-Hup-Hup".

He follows Cordovin, who keeps a steady pace as she passes her soldiers, who salute both her and Whitley as they pass. It feels somewhat suffocating to the boy, being looked upon like that.

He can only imagine what it would feel like if he was near the civilians gathering outside. He follows Cordovin, wondering what exactly the woman wishes to tell him other than the details of his visit

* * *

At the highest level of the tallest tower on base, Caroline Cordovin and Whitley Schnee sat opposite one another in the woman's office. Her office was somewhat of an eyesore for the boy, being a dull white and very utilitarian in design, absent of anything that would suggest the woman's personal life. The only thing that would count as a personal item was a framed photo of General Ironwood sitting on the woman's desk. It was even signed, with a personalized message as well.

 _"Enjoy Argus, Caroline, sincerely yours, General James Ironwood."_

Somehow, he felt that the general's message was not that sincere. He looks over to the woman sitting behind the desk, who is staring at him. No, it feels like she's analyzing him, as though he was some kind of unwanted and unknown presence that she needed to understand.

"Forgive me, Mr. Schnee, but, I must ask… Why are _you_ here?" She asks, placing emphasis on the "you".

The commander's question didn't bother Whitley in the slightest. His arrival was a bit of a late development, and it was obvious that they had been expecting his father. While his father did say that it was only fair for one of the M3 developers to be present for the demonstration, he didn't exactly give a reason why he wouldn't be there. All he said was that his schedule was packed, which in of itself, was a rather vague explanation. It seems that he didn't inform the Military either, considering the question Cordovin poses.

"I am here to observe the demonstration in my father's place, commander. It was rather sudden and I felt obligated to honor my father's wishes. As for why he couldn't be here himself, I'm afraid I'm as in the dark as you are." He explains.

The old soldier accepts the answer. Leaping from her chair, she lands on the floor and walks around her desk. She stands next to the boy, her piercing, scrutinizing brown eyes looking up at him. She may have accepted the answer, but she is still apprehensive about having a child present at the base, even if said child was the son of one of her military's biggest suppliers. Whitley, for his part, simply looks down nervously at the old woman. The woman suddenly directs her attention to the large window behind her desk, which she walks over to. Being tall enough to look through the glass, she gazes down upon the city of Argus.

"Mr. Schnee, what do you see when you look through this window?" She asks out of the blue.

Curious, the boy approaches the window as well, joining the commander in observing the view below. He sees the airfield abuzz with activity, with personnel scurrying about in practiced routes, rushing to fulfill their duties. He directs his gaze upward, focusing on the bridge connecting the base to the city. There were scores of people on the bridge, walking back towards their homes after the ceremony had. There was a sizeable mob of people still standing at the gate, waving signs and throwing trash into the base. Protestors, he concludes.

He moves his focus onto the city, unable to handle the sight of the mob. Remarkably, he could see cars moving about in the distance, driving through doubtlessly busy streets. The buildings glisten in the light of the sun, reflecting on glass and illuminating bricks that were a rich shade of brown, red, and any other color imaginable. This city would not have survived without Atlesian technology, as his history tutor taught him.

"I see the fruits of Atlesian labor and progress." He says smiling, satisfied with the answer he gives.

Cordovin, however, only scoffs. "A beautiful sentiment, but not one I share. Do you know what I see when I look through this window?"

Her eyes furrow. "I see complacency. While our technology has indeed sustained Argus, it has also engendered a sense of false security in the citizens. They are sheep in need of purpose, direction; Direction that can only be given by a shepherd like Atlas, and we reward them for their compliance. We provide for them, and they supply our wool. We protect them, and we have their undying devotion. For the most part, we have obedient sheep…"

She glares down at the mob gathered at the gate. "But sometimes, a few entitled wolves sneak in, trying to disrupt the harmony of the herd. They're hungry wolves, always wanting more scraps and never being satisfied with what we give them. When we try to show them a little kindness, they bite the hand that simply wants to feed them, like the wild beasts they…" She stops when she notices the confused glance the boy is giving her.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asks, getting a little impatient.

The woman looks him in the eyes, unflinching and stern. "Because your family provides the scraps that we, the shepherds, feed the sheep and wolves with. I know you, Whitley Schnee, and of all your accomplishments. The Baxter Foundation, ATI, and your part in the M3 guidance systems research project…"

He knows where this is going. "While you may have accomplished much in your short life, I have to remind you that everything you've done up to this point has been in service to Atlas. Everything you see, your family's wealth has helped build."

"What about the Hammers?" He asks.

" _What_ about the Hammers?" She repeats, sneering at the mention of the family.

 _Must not be a Hammertech fan. Not that I blame her, a four year old could build a better circuit than them… oh, wait, I did._ Whitley thinks rather smugly.

He speaks up, "Alright, fair point. Now, I suppose I asked the wrong question, so let me ask… What do you want from me?"

Cordovin smiles, or at least she gives what she thought is a smile. "I want those missiles that you're demonstrating. Some wolves have been gotten rather… rabid, as of late, and they have made off with some of our guns. Your M3 missiles can help in rectifying that problem, minimizing collateral damage… as well as providing a satisfying field test."

 _There it is._ Whitley realizes, understanding the ulterior purpose of their meeting.

He wonders if she would have tried the same thing on his father. He doubts that her little speech would have worked on him, considering Jacques Schnee never gave anyone anything with a price tag attached. The same can't be said of Whitley. He couldn't exactly say no and he didn't have the power to grant her request. He did know someone who could…

"I can't give you the missiles, but I'm sure I can have father pull some strings to have the first shipment sent here." He tells her, to which she smirks triumphantly.

Satisfied, she gives him the details of the demonstration. "It will be held at 5:45 PM, at one of our outposts in the Atreides desert. Grimm activity is low, practically nonexistent. You'll be taking a predetermined route, free of obstructions and no chance of running into insurgents or bandits. Your escort leaves in fifteen minutes, and it is in Airfield 2."

Whitley thanks the commander with a firm handshake. He approaches the elevator and presses the button. As he waits for the elevator, he hears Cordovin say. "Your family must be very proud of you, Mr. Schnee."

She didn't mean to make it sound hurtful, but it hurt the boy just the same. He politely replies. "Thank you, Commander, for your kind words."

The sound of a ringing alarm tells him the elevator has arrived. The sleek white doors slide into the opening, revealing a pristine, polished elevator car. He steps inside and presses the "Ground" button. The last thing he sees, before the doors close again, is Cordovin standing proudly at the window, her back erect and hands clasped behind it. If only he had that kind of confidence.

The elevator doors close with a clink. He feels the vibrations of the elevator against the rails, bringing him down to his destination. As he waits patiently, a thought occurs.

"Wait, did she say Airfield?"

* * *

⁓ _Back in black, I hit the sack⁓_

As Whitley suspected, his escort was indeed an aircraft. And not just any kind of aircraft, it was a Bullhead VTOL craft. A very old model by his observation, as it didn't look as sleek as the recent models that his family's company has been peddling out. Just his luck, he had to endure five hours of aerial torture traveling to Argus, and now he's suffering more leaving the city. But whereas the other airship had all the finest accommodations money could buy, his newest ride had none of them. In fact, it would be fair to say that he was traveling in a floating piece of junk, junk that belonged in a museum. He has been flying around in an antique for close to four hours. He looks out his viewport window, and observes the escorts for his escort.

⁓ _I keep looking at the sky, 'Cause it's getting' me high⁓_

Flying in a box formation around his craft are three other Bullheads, the same make and model as his. They were hovering slightly in the air, shaking with the winds and moving with all the grace of a buzzing and cackling vulture. Why a buzzing vulture, one might ask? It is because the roar of the Bullhead's engine sounds like a dying vulture, one whose last meal had been a live hornet's nest.

He is glad that he didn't have to hear it inside his own bullhead. Why can't he hear the engines, one were to wonder? It is because the sound of the engines was being drowned out by rock music being played at full volume. And it was all supplied by a radio strapped to the floor. He didn't know the name of the band, since he hardly listens to other music genres outside of classical artists like Mosart and Beetoven. He knows how to play instruments, but he doesn't actively practice. It didn't help that his sister's songs were so heart-wrenchingly depressing that it makes him want to tear his own ears off.

⁓ _I've got nine lives, Cat's eyes⁓_

He won't admit it, but he's enjoying the song. It was annoying at first, but as the trip dragged on, he found himself slightly bopping his head to the beat. It was catchy, what more could he say? Plus, it helped him from addressing his company for the ride. The Atlesian soldiers serving as his protection were all staring at him, silent and wondering whether they should say anything. They bit their tongues long enough, out of fear of saying something that would offend the Schnee. An offended Schnee was a surefire way to get dishonorably discharged. Eventually, one of the soldiers sitting next to the radio turns the volume down.

⁓ _Cause I'm Back! Yes, I'm back⁓_

"What was that for? It was just getting to the good part!" Whitley complains, glaring at the offending soldier.

"We're sorry; Sir, but we need an update on our flight. We can't do that with so much noise." The soldier explains, feeling ashamed for cowering under a teenager's glare.

"You have watches, don't you?" Whitley rhetorically asks.

The sarcasm is lost on the Buzzkill (As Whitley will refer to him now), who replies. "Not that kind of update, sir. We're cutting into the flight path of a supply convoy…"

"And then, what?" Whitley cuts in rudely.

"Well, the pilots need to authenticate over the radio, sir. The music was too loud and they need to hear and be heard." Buzzkill explains.

Whitley accepts the explanation. Still he wishes he had brought some earphones with him. He could've listened to his classical mix on his Scroll. He's also considering updating his playlist with a few songs by the band he was just listening. If only he could know what their name is. He turns to Buzzkill.

"Hey," He says, "Can you tell me who wrote that song?"

Buzzkill turns to the boy, nose scrunched and looking insulted. If it weren't for the helmet hiding his upper face, Whitley swears he could have seen some widened and scandalized eyes. He also notices that Buzzkill's squad mates had similar reactions, save for their commander, who he identifies with the golden arch on his helmet. The man is like a statue, sitting in his seat all stone-faced and cross-armed, not even budging whenever the craft hit turbulent winds. If he is offended by Whitley's question, he didn't show it.

"Who wrote that song? Did you just ask _"who wrote that song?"_ Have you been living under a highly-polished rock, rich boy?" Buzzkill incredulously asks, palming his helmet.

Another soldier, one with a distinct accent, chimes in. "This song was written by legends, boy-o, FREAKIN' LEGENDS!"

Whitley stares blandly at the oddly-sounding grunt. "If they're such legends, then why is this the first time I'm hearing of them?"

The accented soldier growls and whispers, _"Freakin' smartass…"_

"What was that?" Whitley asks, wondering if he heard that right.

The soldier and heir exchange heated glares, preparing for a vicious verbal spat. Just as they were about to commence their argument, another soldier interjects. Whitley looks to the interloper and notices that the soldier is female. The soldier scolds the two. "Enough, the kid asked a question and someone needs to answer it. And Doyle, need I remind you that our mission is to protect the boy, not to antagonize him, even if he irritates you?"

The now-named Doyle slumps his shoulders, looking down at the ground in shame.

" _He started it…"_ he whimpers pathetically, acting like a petulant child.

Ignoring her immature comrade, she looks at the boy and calmly explains. "The name of the band is HC/LC. Before you ask why that name, I don't know, I'm not as big a fan as my friends, I'm more of a Qween-gal."

"Edna has great taste! Long live Fred Mercury!" chants Buzzkill, clasping his hands together in prayer.

 _Okay, I need to listen to some Qween, should I ever have the chance._ Whitley decides. If Buzzkill's reaction were any indicator, they were quite the band.

The now-named Edna continues with her lesson. "Anyway, that song you were listening to is titled _"Back in Black",_ it was written by the band as a tribute for their original lead singer, whose death made many people fear that the band would break up. This song symbolizes that they would continue on, in spite of tragedy. They came back bigger than before."

 _Or they just loved the money too much to quit._ Whitley's cynical side deduces, but the boy keeps it to himself. If he has learned anything about show business, it's that money is usually the muse that inspires successful artist. His sister, Weiss, was among the foolish few who don't capitalize on their natural gifts, never taking a cut of the performance revenue from each of her shows. He's seen the average returns at the box office, she would have made quite the small fortune if she had decided to profit from them. It was her loss.

He notices that Edna is waiting for his response, wanting to know his opinion on the story.

"A nice story, but I think I may have to learn more about the band before I can make an honest opinion…" He starts, before catching himself. "But, I can admire their tenacity. Their music isn't that bad either, I must admit."

Edna smiles somewhat, partially satisfied with the boys answer. Suddenly, the pilot's voice is heard over the intercom. _{Captain Stone, I need you in the cockpit, I've picked up some blips on our radar. Could be the Supply Convoy, need you to exchange clearance codes with their flight lead.}_

The now-identified stone-faced captain (who had an appropriate name, in Whitley's opinion) unfastened his belt and rises, approaching the cockpit. He opens the air locked door leading into it, entering and locking the door behind him.

"The supply convoy is… earlier than expected." Buzzkill notes, looking at his watch. "It was estimated that we would enter their route at about 16:30 hours."

"How is that odd?" Whitley asks, confused by the man's worry.

"16:30 is 4:30. It's only 3:25."

* * *

"Something's not right about this. We're supposed to be an hour away from making contact." Captain Stone remarks, stroking his chin in deep thought.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, sir. There are blips on the radar, and they're reading blue." The pilot explains, feeling nervous about the sudden encounter.

Stone focuses his eyes on the horizon and makes out five objects approaching the escort. Being too far out,

The officer reaches down toward the console, and grabs a small microphone. Holding it to his mouth and pressing down on the button, he addresses the unknowns with a calm and steady voice. "Attention unidentified allied aircraft, this is Snowbird-01, and you are approaching a military escort. Identify yourselves and state intent, and then proceed out of the area."

There is no answer, only static white noise. He speaks again, "Attention aircraft, this is a military escort. Identify and state intent."

The radio is static once again, meaning no response. Gripping the microphone tighter, Stone declares. "Unidentified Aircraft, you have been hailed twice and not responded. If you are experiencing communication failure, then acknowledge with signal lamp."

He waits patiently for a sequence of flashing lights. He didn't care what color the light would be. Red, blue, or yellow, it didn't matter so long as he gets some kind of response. Seconds pass and no such sequence appears. Now he's getting nervous. He turns to the pilot. "Ensign Read, relay this message to the other bullheads. Unknown aircraft, hostile intentions possible, ready weapons for potential combat."

The pilot nods and repeats the message into his helmet's microphone. Stone hears the pilots in the escort announcing their compliance with the order. Whatever intentions these newcomers had, at least they were prepared for them.

He speaks into his microphone with a stern and commanding tone. "Unidentified Aircrafts, you have failed to identify yourselves. If you do not alter course, you will be treated as hostiles and dealt with accordingly."

He waits for a response. Three times he had demanded for one, only to be denied. This is the unknown flight's last chance. He doesn't see any noticeable change. Just as he was about to give the other Bullheads clearance to engage, he hears Read shout. "Sir, the unknowns have altered their flight path! They're breaking off."

Stone takes a deep breath, thanking the gods that his squad was spared. He looks down at Read and smiles, "Maintain Course, but keep all Bullheads on high alert, we don't know if-"

 _{What the hell! They've got radar lock on me!}_ A man's voice cries out over the radio. Stone recognizes the voice as belonging to the pilot of Snowbird-02.

 _{That's impossible; our IFF says they're friendlies!}_ That was Snowbird-03.

 _{Then why are our friends moving into attack position!}_ Shouts Snowbird-04 incredulously.

"Read, have they locked on to us?!" Stone demands, praying that this is just a case of technical error.

The pilot replies swiftly, "No, sir, no lock on us!"

Stone hails the other Bullheads, shouting for evasive maneuvers. The aircraft rocks, as though something big hit it.

 _{Snowbird-02's been hit… She's going down… Oh, Gods, it's burning!}_

 _{Where the hell did that missile come from?! We didn't pick it up on radar!}_

He looks out through the side of the cockpit's canopy, and sees Snowbird-02 rapidly losing altitude, a trail of smoke coming from a burning wreck that was once its thrusters. As he watches the craft descend, something flies past his vision, moving faster than the naked eye could perceive.

"Sir, Snowbird-03 is being tailed, 04 has positive ID on attacker. It's a Bullhead, sir, military class at that, and a recent model too, far too fast for our antiques!" Read screeches, adding fearfully, "There's a good chance those other craft are the same type!"

"Call Argus for Reinforcements!" The captain orders while fastening himself into the passenger seat.

"I've tried, sir, but I can't reach them. All frequencies are blocked, jammed!" Read reports, fiddling with the radio as he tries to find a signal to use.

Stone sits in stunned silence, wondering just what is happening, _False IFF sigs, phantom missiles, and terrorists using Military-grade jamming software, just who the hell are these guys?_

* * *

Whitley Schnee is terrified. He is so scared that he is nearly on the verge of tears, begging for the kindness of the gods to shine on him, to spare his life. He looks around the cabin, watching the soldiers as they react in their own way. Buzzkill has clasped his hands together in prayer, no doubt wishing for the gods to do what the boy just begged for. Doyle is tossing out every swear word in existence, cursing the same gods he and Buzzkill were pleading to for mercy. Edna is gritting her teeth and holding on for dear life, as though expecting a crash-landing. Supplies fly through the air as the Bullhead lifts up and down, banking between left and right.

"Kid, you wearing your Bulletproof vest?" He hears Edna ask in concern.

He hesitantly answers back, "Yeah…"

"Then start hoping that that's all you'll need!"

He feels himself becoming weightless, but restrained within his seat by the safety belt. He knows what is happening, he's read enough science books to know. They are falling. He closes his eyes and waits for the impact.

Then everything went black.

* * *

"Get down, Incoming!"

"I don't see anything!"

Whitley feels numb. His eyes open, and his vision is blurry. Everything looks so bright, yet so fuzzy. He can see fuzzy, dark images running about, but they have no distinct features. He can still hear, but it feels like pillows are pressing against his ears. His back feels stiff, like he has been resting on a rock. He also feels warm, no, he feels hot. He also feels a pressure on his forehead. Reaching up with his right hand, he tries to feel for the strange sensation. He stops when he feels something cold, wet, and sticky.

Bringing his hand down, he notices something very unusual about his fingers. They were red, a really dark shade of red. A Red so richly dark, that for a moment, he thought that his skin had been peeled off. If it wasn't musculature, than what could it be?

A sobering and altogether frightening realization came.

 _This is blood… this is MY blood!_

With that sobering epiphany, the world came back into focus for him. What he sees shocks and frightens him. In the distance, lying flat on its stomach and missing a wing is the Bullhead he had been traveling on. Fire and smoke billow from the cracked canopy of the cockpit, ascending so far into the sky that it seemed to disappear into the blue mists. He sees three dots up above, circling one another as though playing a high altitude game of tag. He watches one of the dots disappear, replaced by a trail of black barreling into the distance. The other two break off, disappearing into the sky as well.

 _I have to get out of here! I need to get to safety!_

The panicking boy rises and runs. He passes the Atlesian soldiers desperately fighting off their attackers, paying mind to the bullets and missiles flying near and over his head. Explosions erupt around him, kicking sand and metal particulates into his face, yet he charges onward, desperate to find safety. He finds a large rock to take cover, jumping right behind it. His breathing is sharp and sporadic, and he feels sweat rolling down his face. An explosion erupts behind his hiding place, pelting his head with clumps of petrified sand.

He hears something fall beside him. Looking over to his right, he sees, lying a good few feet away from him, a body. Only, he doesn't know what part of the body he's looking at. Had it been the front or the back of a person? Was he staring at its face or the base of its head? He couldn't tell, the corpse being so mangled that he can't even begin to describe it. He feels as though he is going to vomit, but nothing comes up.

He then notices something else. Lying next to the body was an Atlesian assault rifle, undamaged and probably still loaded. Should he pick it up? Can he defend himself with it? He's spent enough time designing weapons over the years to know how they work. He slowly moves to take it.

Then something plants itself between the gun and the boy. Whitley looks at the strange object, and notes that it looks familiar. It has a polished metallic finish, was about the size of a small thermos, and had small fins circling a gaping hole. It was some kind of projectile.

Emblazoned upon the miniature missile, in finely etched lettering layered over with blue paint, was an inscription.

 _SDC MUNITIONS, M3 ROCKET_

Whitley jumps back and screams. "HOLY SHI-"

The M3 explodes. The force of the explosion pushes him onto his back. Lying in the warm desert sand, he tries to regain his bearings. His ears are ringing, and his vision a little hazy. Then he feels something. It feels like a thousand burning needles were being pressed into his chest by a sledgehammer. He lifts his head slightly and looks at his chest. His once-pristine black suit jacket has been singed, exposing his equally damaged white dress shirt to the world, which had steadily expanding red splotch seeping through, centered directly where his heart is.

He pulls on the shirt, ripping it apart. His eyes widen as he sees an equally red mark upon the ruined bullet-proof vest he was wearing.

He's going to die. He's going to die alone in the desert and nobody will ever know.

His life flashes before his eyes. Every moment of his life jots across his eyes like a rapidly moving slide-show. He sees his sisters, Pepper, Happy, Father, and Rhodey. Every good day, every bad day, all the birthdays and holidays play out.

The very last thing he sees, before the darkness takes him, is the warm and gentle smile of his mother.

The last thing he hears is a very rough-sounding voice.

 _"Take him... this was not part of the plan."_

* * *

 **Hoo boy, that was a chore to write. I'm so exhausted, that I can't leave a proper Author's note. All I can say is whatever musical acts you see in this chapter, I had changed the names of to fit within the Rwbyverse.**

 **Also I'm looking for Beta-reader. I need people that can help me improve the overall quality of this story. (Basically I'm looking for people who can help me with Dialogue, Proper use of Past and Present tense, grammar, plot holes, and to bounce ideas off of.)**

 **Also, I am writing five other stories for this site.**

 **They are:**

 **A Naruto x Fairy Tail crossover**

 **A Naruto x Rwby crossover**

 **A Spider-Man x My Hero Academia crossover (Description on my profile)**

 **My own unique Transformers universe**

 **Code Geass x Batman Story (Description on my profile)**

 **Also, to address a question I'm sure all of you are asking... I will try to release as many chapters as I can within a short time period. There'll be times where I might post two chapters in four weeks, and perhaps in two months. I do have a life outside of Fanfiction.**

 **Anyway, thank you for reading and I hoped you enjoyed this installment of THE INVINCIBLE WHITLEY SCHNEE. Excelsior, True Believers!**


	3. Refusing the Call, Part 1 of 2

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter 3: Refusing the Call (And Accepting the Consequences), Pt. 1**

 **Mistral, April 25** **th** **, 2008 KC (Kingdom Calendar)**

 **Atlas-Mistral Joint Operations Base, Fort Conan, Specialist Schnee's Quarters**

 **11:30 AM**

Sitting at her office, Winter Schnee reads the latest intelligence regarding the mission she's been assigned. A week ago, she was transferred to the AMJOB on orders from the base commander, General Thaddeus Ross. The man needed an officer with experience in hunting fugitives and she was recommended. The fact that Ross even accepted the proposal confused her to no end. She's aware of the General's rivalry with her mentor, General Ironwood, and of his bias against Ironwood's policy of drafting hunters into the military, considering them empowered yet reckless loose cannons.

Ross had a rather conservative outlook on how the military should be run, believing that the military and hunter academy should stay separate. He believed that only soldiers who trained strenuously in boot camp should join, not a bunch of entitled, overpowered upstarts who learned to fight in some "safe, cushy classroom". Though, that didn't entitle him to act like an ass towards everyone, in her opinion.

 _I wonder if Ross reads the Daily Bugle, he seems like the type._ Winter amusedly thinks, the general's disposition reminding her of the Valean newspaper's editor, James Jonah Jameson.

 _I can imagine he wouldn't like that Spider-Man Jameson's getting obsessed about._ She wonders, recalling the vigilante that has been fighting crime in Vale for the past month.

She doesn't have any opinion about the so-called "web-slinging wonder", believing the vigilante to be nothing but a hoax concocted by a failing newspaper to sell papers.

"Superheroes in Vale…" She wonders aloud before frowning. "Give me a break."

In her opinion, the very idea that a man in Vale was going around fighting criminals in red spandex and doing so, without any expectation of reward, sounds completely ludicrous. Even if this Spider-Man really does exist, she doubts that he is fighting crime out of the kindness of his heart. She knew better than anyone that most acts of goodwill have some kind of ulterior motive behind it. It was one of the first lessons she learned in life, with her family serving as the example.

She can't help but think what else people will think up. Perhaps the bugle will start spinning tales about an indestructible man, or maybe a woman who can walk through walls without a semblance. She wouldn't be surprised if they start circling articles about the "Dinosaur-Land" all the conspiracy theorists have been arguing about for years.

"Like in the comic books…" Winter scoffs.

She didn't believe in amazing fantasies, she believed in cold-hard facts. Like the facts within the file she's holding in her hands. It was a mission dossier, with details regarding the suspect in question. From what she could gather, sans the redacted information, the man she has been tasked with apprehending had been a scientist working on a joint Atlas-Mistral research program, one who has eluded the law for the past four years. He apparently sabotaged the project, an act that also injured dozens of his colleagues, and ran off. Interestingly, among the scientists to be injured was none other than General Ross' daughter.

 _I certainly hope Ross won't let his personal interests get in the way of this mission._ She couldn't help but hope.

She examines the photo attached with the file. The fugitive certainly didn't look the part of a vindictive criminal, being a somewhat meek-looking man, with tussled brown hair and very nervous-looking green eyes. He didn't cut quite the imposing figure, having a physique befitting a man in his field of work. She knows there's more to this assignment than she is being told, and that there are certain details being withheld, but such information was above her pay grade. She is a soldier and she has been given a mission, and she'll see it through.

"Bruce Banner…" She says, speaking the suspect's name with a steeled resolve.

A sudden knocking at the door rattles her. She folds the folder, places it on her desk, and walks to the door. She opens the door, and is surprised to find a private standing behind it, standing at attention and holding folder in his hand.

He salutes the woman and speaks. "Ma'am, you have an urgent message from Headquarters. You are being recalled to Atlas, Ma'am. Details are on these papers."

He hands the folder to her, not once dropping the salute.

"Well, who's hunting the fugitive now?" She asks incredulously.

"That fugitive's capture has been reassigned to Captain Blonsky, Ma'am. That's all I've been told, Ma'am." The private replies, while still holding the salute.

She keeps her face blank. But on the inside, she was fuming. _Emil Blonsky? Ross must be losing it, sending that glory hound… still, better him than Talbot._

Knowing that will be all the information that she will receive, the specialist salutes the private, who promptly marches away. She closes the door, looking down at the folder in her hands. She opens it and examines the papers inside. She has only been in Mistral for a week, and now she is being brought back home?

"What could be urgent enough to-" She freezes upon reading the first sentence.

She stands frozen in shock, like a statue. She can only gaze at the words in front of her, trying desperately to make sure she had read it right. Again and again, she re-examines each and every sentence, trying to see if there was a single typo. If there were any, then this was just some kind of sick joke, and she can continue on with her mission. She found none and soon the reality of the message hit her hard.

 _Whitley Schnee has been reported missing._

Her brother has gone missing, and the top brass were worried that she'll go AWOL and search for him. They have no idea how right they were. Whitley Schnee may be one of the most insufferable people in her life, but he was still her baby brother. A brother she promised their grandmother that she would protect; a promise that these orders are going to make her break.

If she disobeyed her orders and searched for her brother, then she'll be caught, court-martialed, and sent to a military prison for desertion. She knew for a fact that her imprisonment won't help her brother either.

The paper crumbles under her grip.

 _I wonder how Weiss is going to take the news._ She thinks, before moving to pack her belongings.

* * *

 **Vale, Osborn Grande Hotel, Third Floor Café**

Sitting at a table, Weiss Schnee waits for a server to take her order. She had arrived in Vale only last night, taking residence at the hotel, where she had reserved a room. This is where she'll be staying until Beacon's summer semester begins. She could afford it. Besides, she couldn't spend another day in Atlas with her family.

Since her arrival, she has been on a complete Atlesian media blackout. For as long as she would be in Vale, she will not watch, listen, or read anything regarding her home kingdom. She didn't want to concern herself with her birthplace, wanting instead to become better acquainted with the kingdom where she'll be pursuing her education as a Huntress. She also wanted a chance to learn more about the kingdom where her grandmother grew up. She always wondered just what kind of place could churn out a firebrand like Antoinette Stark-Schnee. Studying here, at Beacon, is probably going to be her only chance at getting to know more about her grandmother.

"This is it… this is where I will make my mark on the world." She breathes, barely holding in her excitement. "Just like you, Grandma."

Yes, this is where she will prove herself. She will show that she is more than just her name, and that Beacon is merely a stepping stone to realizing her dream, and she fully intends to rise to the top. She will make her sister proud.

 _Where was Winter last night, anyway?_ She wonders, recounting the lavish ball her father held for her before she left for Vale.

The ball had been another of her father's attempts to dissuade her from going to Beacon, but she would not be deterred. Like her sister, she is going to prove that she doesn't need her father's influence to achieve her goals. She is the heiress to the Schnee Dust Company, meaning that _only_ she is worthy of restoring the glory of the Schnee name.

 _Me, not Whitley, ME!_ She couldn't help but rage at the mention of her younger sibling.

She always hated how smugly her brother acts. She hates how he would lord his intelligence over everyone, as though he were the smartest person in the room. Oh, how she despises that superior attitude of his, how he always got the best grades, how he was always toadying up to father, and treating everyone around him like some kind of disposable pawn. How Aunt Pepper, Uncle Rhodey, Happy, and her grandmother have tolerated him for so long was well beyond her understanding, doubly so, for the Stane family.

She remembers seeing him at the ball last night, glancing at her with that same victorious smirk he has always carried, looking down on her as though he was the superior sibling. She has the strength and skill necessary to bring dignity back to the Schnee name. Once she succeeds her father, she can finally put an end to all of those slanderous allegations against her grandfather's company. Oh, how she can't wait to wipe the smirk off her brother's face when she becomes the next head of the family.

Suddenly, she hears her scroll rings. Reaching into her purse, she pulls it out and reads the name on presented on the screen.

 _[FATHER]_

She ignores the call, depositing her scroll back into her purse. Her father has already tried everything to keep her in Atlas, now he's become desperate to call her after arriving in Vale? She can imagine that Whitley must be driving the man up the walls with all of his sycophantic posturing.

"Miss, may I have your order?" She hears a voice ask. Looking up she sees a waiter holding out a notepad, patiently waiting for her order.

She pulls up the menu. _Hmmm, that éclair looks heavenly._

Making her mark on the world can wait, she has a sweet tooth to satisfy, and she fully intends on doing so.

* * *

 **Atlas Intercontinental Airport**

Pepper Potts hates Air Travel. Why does she hate it, if one were to ask? Well, here are the reasons why _doesn't_ hate it. She doesn't have Acrophobia, considering her office is located on the highest floor of the tallest tower in the world. She doesn't have a fear of flying; in fact she has been on more airships than she can possibly count, not to mention the fact that one of her closest friends was once a pilot. She doesn't suffer from motion sickness, on account of the fact that she prides herself on having an iron stomach.

So why does she hate air travel?

"Sir, would you please empty your pockets?"

She watches Happy jostle his pants pockets. "For the last time, that was literally everything in my pockets!"

It was the Atlas Transit Authority. They were the reason why she hates air travel. She understood the need for security, especially given the times they live in now, when people had more than just Grimm to worry about. In fact, she would've appreciated their dedication to preserving the safety of well-being of every traveler that comes through and from the kingdom. She really would, if it weren't for the fact that they were the most obstructive, rude, and incompetent people on the face of the planet.

 _Seriously, it's like the organization just hires anybody that sends in an application._ She thinks rather dismissively, while watching her fiancée try to pass through the metal detector again.

"Your machine is busted! Did you think that was a possibility!?" He testily asks, crossing his arms.

"Sir, if you do not control yourself, I will call security." The ATA agent calmly replies.

Happy palms his face. He looks to be on the brink of a meltdown. Not that she blamed him, since they have been waiting in line for close to ten minutes. She can't begin to imagine how the people behind her are feeling. Especially those further down the line, who are no doubt cursing whatever jackass is holding up the line, forcing them to endure hours of torturous waiting, worried that they won't be able to make their flight in time.

Right now, the jackass they were cursing was none other than Happy.

 _Though the blame also falls on the guy who won't even accept that the detector is out-of-order!_ She couldn't help but think.

Suddenly, her Scroll rings. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the small device. The screen showed the caller was none other than Rhodey. She answers the call.

"Hey, Rhodey, how's it going?" She asks over the Scroll.

She hears him answer back. "What about Whitley?"

She regrets asking that, as her eyes suddenly widen. The grip on her Scroll loosens and she drops it. The screen cracks upon impacting the cold, tiled floor, but she pays it no mind. Her mind was focused on other things, dark thoughts brought upon by worry. Her legs buckle under the increasing pressure brought upon by these thoughts. She drops to her knees, her breathing rapid and uncontrolled.

Happy notices this and ceases his tirade. He rushes to his beloved's side, asking her what's wrong. She is inconsolable, whatever words that try to form on her lips come out as pained whimpers. He notices her Scroll on the floor and picks it up. He sees that there was an open line, and Rhodey's name was on the screen.

He puts it to his ear and demands answers from the man. Seconds pass before Rhodey answers. The answer shakes the man to his core, much like Pepper. He didn't want to believe it, but he heard it clear as day. Whitley Schnee, the boy he had sworn to protect, and had come to see as family, has gone missing. The military escort acting as his escort never made it to the demonstration.

The Vacuo Safari can wait. They need to find out what's happened to their boy.

* * *

The SDC, with all of their power, tried desperately to suppress the story. Only those who were close to the boy, friends and family alike, were allowed to know. Indeed, the company could stop the official story from spreading. But the same couldn't be said for the rumors. After Whitley Schnee's escort failed to reach the site of the weapon demonstration, it didn't take long for those present to begin speculating. While the higher brass kept their mouths shut, out of respect for the boy's family, those lower on the chain began to speculate as to the boy's fate.

Many assumed the boy was dead, some said he was alive, and others would claim that it was all a stunt pulled by a rich teenager desperate for attention. Their words of hearsay and unconfirmed reports soon found their way into the public. Those sympathetic to the poor boy gave their condolences to his family, while the vocal few opposed to his father mocked the man over his son. But, despite their different takes on the story, and their own feelings toward the boy's family, the all asked themselves the same question.

Where in the world is Whitley Schnee?

* * *

Whitley jolts awake, sitting straight up. His breathing is hitched and erratic, as though he is gasping for air after drowning. His eyes are wide like saucers, stinging and wet, and his throat feels very dry, like he hasn't drank anything in days. How long has he been out? Was it all a dream? Is this a dream? These questions and so many more echo through his mind, trying to discern fact from fiction.

He takes a moment to consider the facts. _Alright, my Bullhead escort was attacked by an unknown enemy, most probably the White Fang. They were using some advanced hardware, hardware that_ I _designed, and they somehow stole. I survived the crash, meaning that I'm not dead… at least, I hope not._

A sharp pain suddenly courses through his head. _I can still feel pain, so I guess I'm still alive. Oh, joy._

He reaches up and feels his forehead. To his astonishment, it has already been bandaged.

He relaxes somewhat, but is still apprehensive. While his good health is not in question, he still didn't know where he was.

He looks around and notices, much to his disappointment, that he's not in an extremely dimly-lit hospital room, but a very dark and damp cave. The walls were blasted-out out of stone, with the blast marks long faded from time. He also notes that there were some busted crates and a few turned over carts, with a small and rusty track in the ground. Had this been a mine at some point?

He pales, darkly thinking. _Okay, I'm alive… but present circumstances make me wish I wasn't._

He takes another look and notices there is modern medical equipment lying about along with several unopened wooden crates and barrels. He even notices some metalworking equipment that seems to have been used recently. There's even a forge, much to his surprise. He tries to stand, curious to learn more about his current residence, but finds that he is unable to. He could feel something tugging at him.

He then tries again, this time feeling that he was pulling something heavy. It also sounded metallic, if the scrapes he had heard were an indicator. A thought occurs to the boy. _No, it feels like I'm tugging on something… connected to my body!_

He stares down at his chest. He sees that he is no longer in his black business suit, with his bare chest exposed to the world. He notices that it has been bandaged up, with a small bulge in the center. He could also make out two wires underneath the bandages, no doubt connecting to the bulge on his chest. His eyes widen further in fear.

 _Oh, no, Gods, please no…_

With shaking hands, he starts ripping the bandages off, determined to uncover what has been done to him. Little by little, the thick cloth wrapping is unraveled, revealing a circular metallic object stitched into his chest, directly over where his heart should be, with two color-coded wires connected to a small joint in the center.

 _This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this is NOT happening!_ He worriedly denies, slapping his face in a vain attempt to wake himself up from this horrific dream. It doesn't work.

He follows the wires with his eyes. Tracing their path, his eyes wander to his right. He feels his heart drop at what he sees. Sitting upon a wooden table, with wires connected to ground, is a car battery. He starts to hyperventilate, with his mind racing.

 _OH, MY GODS! THIS IS HAPPENING! WHAT IS THIS THING?! IS IT A BOMB? THIS HAS TO BE A BOMB! I'VE BEEN KIDNAPPED AND THEY'VE RIGGED ME TO EXPLODE!_

The boy hugs himself, going into a fetal position upon his cot. He is going to die. He is going to die alone and no one will ever know. The story of the great Whitley Schnee is going to end long before he even had a chance to write it. What stings most for the frightened boy is the fact that he'll never see the people he loves most in the world ever again. In fact, the last face he'll probably ever see won't in life be a smiling Pepper or a flustered Happy, but the smug, victorious smirk of a hateful Faunus.

"I see that you are awake." A calm voice calls out, immediately followed by a steady series of footsteps.

Whitley's body immediately tenses up, surprised by the unexpected and sudden voice. Had that been one of his captors? Have they come to finish the job? Or have they come to do worse? So many possible scenarios ran through the frightened boy's mind, each more painful and gruesome than the last. He's heard what has happened to people in hostage situations, from all of the times he read about these stories in the news. How the captives would be tortured, violated, and then executed after their captors had their fun. The implied "fun" being one painful, horrifying four lettered word that even Whitley can't say aloud.

Visions of the horrifyingly graphic and unimaginably painful torture awaiting him flash through his mind. It is too overwhelming for the boy, who begins to hyperventilate again. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for his imminent death. He feels he's about to cry, but holds the tears back. He will not give these bastards the privilege of watching him beg for life. He is still a Schnee, and he will not be broken.

The footsteps increase in volume, as well as their frequency. Then they stop.

"Are you alright, my boy?" The voice asks, sounding far too concerned to belong to a terrorist.

Slowly, the boy opens his eyes. He looks to his left and finds himself confused. Standing next to him, was a middle-aged, scholarly-looking, balding and bespectacled Middle-Mistralian gentleman dressed in dirty, wrinkled academic-looking clothes. He reminds Whitley of a few of his old professors from the university. To the Schnee's surprise, the man was also holding two ceramic cups in both of his hands. Taking a quick whiff, he is able to tell that is tea, though what kind he can't tell. He'd always been more of a coffee person.

"Yeah… I, uhm, am doing fine…" Whitley unsurely replies with a cracking voice. He'd forgotten how dry and scratchy his throat felt.

The man holds his right hand out to the boy, offering the cup in his grasp. "Drink this, it'll relax your throat, help you speak more clearly."

The boy looks nervously at the cup. He didn't know if it was poisoned or not. For all he knows, this man was a disguised Fang trying to lull him into a false sense of security. Though he couldn't tell if this man is a member of the White Fang, considering that he didn't see any Faunus features on his person. But he had heard that some Faunus had traits that could be easily hidden. If this man was trying to play him for a fool, he was not going to fall for it.

No matter how sweet and tempting that tea smelled.

He glares at the cup held by Professor, which is what the boy has decided to call him, and scoots back on his cot. The man is confused by the boy's action, wondering what exactly he had done to offend the boy. He then looks at his tea, which he notes as being the focus of the boy's rather hateful glare.

Then he remembered the situation that they were in. They were in a dark cave, both were total strangers, and one was offering a person they just met a drink. It was one of the standard scenarios of a poisoning.

The man pulls his right hand back, than raises the cup to his lips, taking a sip of the tea. Whitley just stares at the man, completely taken by surprise. If the man was willing to drink the tea, the tea that he had believed was poisoned, that means he was safe, for now at least.

Professor smacks his lips, savoring the tea's flavor. "So refreshing… "

He looks at the boy and calmly explains, "See, no poison. Besides, even If I were your captor, who I most assuredly am not, why would I poison my means of ransom? Especially, when it is someone as important as you, Mr. Schnee?"

Whitley finds no flaws in the man's logic. He may not have taken him hostage, but that still didn't clear him of having ulterior motives.

"You know who I am?" Whitley asks, still on the fence about taking that tea.

"Well, of course I do, I would have to be living under a rock if I didn't recognize the son of Jacques Schnee." Professor explains, now offering the cup in his left hand. "Now, drink the tea, it'll help, physically…. _and_ mentally, I might add."

Whitley stares at the cup offered to him. He looks at Professor, who gives him a reassuring smile. Seeing as how he has no choice and that his throat is killing him, the boy takes the cup. He brings it to his lips and takes a slow, drawn-out sip.

He feels the warm, flavored water shower his taste buds, coating them with liquefied honey and lemon juice mixed with water. He could also taste a dash of sugar in it as well. He leans back on his cot and savors the tea.

He moans in delight, "Sooo gooood…"

The Professor chuckles at the Boy's reaction. Whatever tension that existed between the two has faded. Seconds pass before Whitley finishes his teas. He could feel that his throat was feeling much better, along with his mood, which was _slightly_ better than before. He turns to the older male and says, "Thank you."

The professor smiles and chuckles, "My, my, a thank you, and from a Schnee, no less? That's gotta be the highest praise imaginable."

"Don't let it go to your head, I still don't trust you." Whitley tells him, setting his cup aside.

"Not even for saving your life?" At that, Whitley blinks, not expecting that. The boy asks, "How do you mean?"

Professor taps his own chest, right over where his heart should be. Whitley taps his chest as well, feeling the strange device that's been embedded into it. The realization hit him like a hammer on glass, shattering the slightly-better mood that he was just in. He didn't like it one bit.

He angrily demands, "What have you done to me!"

The older man keeps his composure and calmly explains. "I think you mean to ask "what did I do _for_ you?" and what I did saved your life."

Despite his anger, Whitley's curiosity was piqued, as his savior continues. "When they brought you in, you had extensive damage to your chest, you were bleeding profusely and there was shrapnel slowly eating their way into your heart. And before your ask, no, I didn't remove all of the shrapnel. Don't believe what the movies or TV tells you, son. Removing shrapnel is not an easy task, and with a wound like yours, removing any more shards would do more harm than good."

Suddenly, Whitley's curiosity was overshadowed by horror. There was shrapnel in his body, burrowing away though his muscle tissue, intent on shredding his heart to pieces. Whatever this man did was able to keep him alive. Or at least prolonged the time before his inevitable death, he darkly thought.

He asks the man, "So what did you do?"

"I did what any self-respecting physician would do… I improvised." The old man beams, puffing his chest in pride.

"First, I considered unlocking your aura, but as far as modern medical science knows, no person's aura has ever been able to rapidly heal extremely damaged flesh and tissue. And even if that were the case, there was no telling that your aura would expel the shrapnel from your body. It would close the wound, but the metal shards would remain, and you would still die…" He pauses, letting the full weight of his words fall on the boy's mind.

When he sees the boy's eyes widen, he resumes speaking, "…So with that option tossed out the window, I decided to try this new method that I've been developing. I was inspired by artificial pacemakers, which is what this gizmo functions like, but it's also the farthest thing from one. The device in your chest is an electromagnet that is keeping the metallic shrapnel from entering your heart. It's what keeping you alive, so long as it keeps working."

Whitley looks down at the electromagnet, and then looks toward the battery to which it was wired. He then asks, "And I take it this magnet will only work so long as this car battery has juice in it?"

"As I said before, I had to improvise." Professor reiterates. He then frowns, lamenting, "Under better circumstances, I would have been proud of this achievement. But the fact that it had to be tested on a hostage, and one so young, is nothing but tragic."

Whitley freezes at the word "Hostage". He knew that he has been kidnapped, but that word fully drove the reality of his situation in. He is being held hostage, captive in an unknown mine, separated from the few people he holds dear by several thousand miles. But there was still the question of who exactly his captors were.

"Where am I?" He asks, though he knows he won't like the answer.

The man strokes his chin and speaks. "From what I've been able to learn, our current residence is an abandoned mine that once belonged to the Roxxon Energy Corporation, from back before they went out of business. It has long since been appropriated by our… _hosts_." He finishes, stating last word with subdued anger.

" _Hosts", that's certainly the nicest thing one can call kidnappers. Still, the way he spoke about them implies he's a prisoner like me. I would say that's reassuring, if it weren't for the fact I still don't know his name._ Whitley thinks, before deciding that this will be a good chance to learn more about their "hosts". He might even find out if he can trust this man.

"And just who would our gracious hosts be?" The boy asks, before adding rather facetiously, "I think it would be rather rude as to not thank them for being so _considerate_ in their care, since they've done such a _bang-up_ job so far."

Professor laughs at the boy's condescending tone. At least the boy has a sense of humor. He hopes it survives this place. He then answers, "Well, our hosts, that is actually rather complicated."

The boy leans in, wanting to know more.

"They call themselves the White Fang, but from what I've gathered during my time here, they're really more a splinter cell that has split off from the main organization. Their membership is also quite unique for a terrorist group, seeing as they carry themselves like professional military, and the ones calling the shots are mostly in their mid-forties, early fifties." The man explains, before elaborating further. "My educated guess is that their leaders are experienced veterans of the Faunus Rights Revolution, ones who've trained the next generation to fight like they have."

Whitley, despite himself, couldn't help but palm his face. _Okay, not the answer I was expecting. Just great, I had to get myself captured by a terrorist group that was legitimate military once… And it happened to be the group that's probably more extreme than the so-called extremists I mean, why else would they cut themselves off from Sienna Khan?_

Whatever hope the young Schnee had left quickly vanishes, replaced by dread. He didn't let his fear show, remembering the mantra his father once told him. _Real Schnee are above animals._

His father preached that the Schnee were better than Faunus, considering how their family provided them with employment. He heard the rumors growing up, about the unequal pay, the inhuman working conditions, and employment practices that some of his father's critics have decried as tantamount to slavery. But those were merely slanderous accusations from people jealous of his family's position. As for Faunus Equality, Whitley Schnee was disinterested at best and apathetic at worst. There were far more important things to worry about in his life than the griping of disgruntled workers. One of these worries being how he can live long enough to be rescued by Atlesian Soldiers.

Speaking of soldiers, Whitley quickly asks. "The soldiers in my security escort, what happened to them?"

Professor frowns and tells him. "I'm afraid you are the only survivor. Whatever soldiers that survived the crash, they killed on the spot… I'm sorry."

The boy feels the pit his stomach swell with shame, unable to bear what he's heard.

He didn't want to believe it was true, but he knew it in his gut that his security detail didn't survive. He can't even begin to imagine what their families must be feeling right now. While he certainly didn't like Hunters, considering their misguided belief of "might makes right", he had nothing but the upmost respect for soldiers. He always thought that soldiers, police officers, and even rescue workers represented the very best in Humanity, being that they were ordinary people that trained and pushed themselves beyond their limits without the use of Aura. Aura may have its uses, he can concede to that, yet it is also was very flawed. Aura is only useful so long as it's spent sparingly, and it had to be recharged when completely drained. It was more a crutch than strength as far as he is concerned.

Yes, Aura is a crutch, one that he had almost been given. He isn't like his sisters, so he imagines that his Aura levels would have paled in comparison to theirs. He doubts his Aura would have helped him in the long run, considering the situation he now finds himself. After all, Aura was practically useless in the hands of a novice, taking years to master.

Whitley immediately fumes, _Years that I've lost to those bastards…_

Then a terrifying thought occurred. _Wait, how much time do I have left?! How long will the power in this car battery last?! That's not to mention the average amount of joules generated by the human heart, which is greater than what a car battery generates in its own lifetime! I Might be dead in Week!_

As the boy speculates his fate, the Professor calmly sets his tea aside. He pulls up a chair and places it next to the boy's cot, sitting down and taking out a stethoscope.

"I know this is a lot to take in," Professor says, trying to comfort the panicking boy. "But I need you to stay calm, the last thing we need is for you to have a panic attack. Just take a deep breath, okay, deep breaths."

Having heard the man's words, Whitley immediately does as he's told and takes a deep breath. He holds it in, trying to calm his racing heart and mind. Seconds pass before he finally exhales.

"Very good, now, I need to listen to your heartbeat. The Implant may have worked, but I still need to know if your heart is still pumping like a healthy one. This won't take a minute." The man tells him, before placing the stethoscope next to the device on his chest.

As he listens to Whitley's heartbeat, the boy asks. "You got a name? Cause I can't think of anything else to call you other than "Professor"."

"My name is Yinsen, Dr. Ho Yinsen." The now-named Yinsen answers calmly, listening intently to the beating heart.

Whitley raises an eyebrow, thinking, _Ho Yinsen, huh? I swear I've heard that name somewhere before…_

He could think about that later. Right now, he should focus on following his new doctor's instructions to the letter. But as he sat on the cot, undergoing an impromptu physical, he couldn't help but wonder about his kidnappers.

Just what kind of sick, twisted plans did they have for him?

He has a feeling he's not going to like them.

* * *

"YOU FUCKING IDIOTS! DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU'VE JUST DONE TO US!?"

Miklos Vryolak is not having a good day. First, he had a crick in his back yesterday, one that he still has today. Then he discovered that their rations were running low, meaning his group had to go on another "shopping" trip. Finally, he realized that the squad he sent out to capture Jacques Schnee had already carried out the operation. Now, normally he would be commending his soldiers for a job well done, but there had been a _slight_ mix-up in their mission.

Suffice to say, the Bull Faunus is not happy. Actually, that is a gross oversimplification; the man is, in his own words, "ABSOLUTELY FUCKING PISSED!"

"But, sir, we were just following your order-" One of his troops tries to reason, only to receive a punch to his face from the general.

"Idiot, my orders were for you to capture _Jacques Schnee_! Oh, you brought me a Schnee alright," Vryolak said, only to shout, "EXCEPT YOU BROUGHT ME THE _WRONG_ ONE!"

He punches the same soldier again, knocking him to the floor. As the poor man suffers under the vicious assault by their leader, his comrades simply stand aside, not wanting to draw the ire of their outraged General. It was in their best interests to simply let one of them take one for the team. To their immense relief, the one whom Vryolak chose to work out his rage upon had been the commander for the operation. Talk about lucky.

"I ASKED FOR THE PRESIDENT OF THE SDC COMPANY!" Cyrus shouts, before grasping the man's throat, pinning him to the floor.

"INSTEAD YOU BRING ME ONE OF HIS LITTLE BASTARDS!" He punches the man, shattering his mask.

"BUT IT WASN'T THE SPECIALIST!" He breaks the man's nose, which causes him to scream in pain.

"IT WASN'T THE HUNTRESS-IN-TRAINING!" He twists the man's wrist, eliciting another pained scream

"NO, YOU BROUGHT ME THE YOUNGEST ONE, WHO CAN'T EVEN HOLD A FUCKING RIFLE TO SAVE HIS OWN LIFE!" He stands and plants his foot upon the man's head, knocking him out.

Miklos stands, his anger placated, towering over the broken body of his subordinate. He is not going to kill the man for this failure, but he is not going to give him a slap on the wrist either. Hopefully, this beating will inspire him, as well as the others, not to FUBAR any future missions. He notices that the man's blood is on his still clenched fist. He snaps his fingers, and a wash cloth is handed to him by his second-in-command, who had remained silent throughout the entire "disciplining" session.

As he wipes the blood from his hands, he looks to this idle soldiers and calmly commands, "Take Captain Fuck-Up to Yinsen. If the boy is awake, bring him to me. You are dismissed."

The terrorists quickly salute their leader and comply with his command. Two of them scoop up Captain Fuck-up from the floor and carry him out to be treated by Yinsen. After they leave, he sighs in disappointment, "It's so hard to find competent help these days."

"Perhaps they'd be more competent if you don't bash their skulls in. It might save a few brain cells if you hold your punches," Remarked his lieutenant, who had been watching everything silently, recording everything that happened by writing on his clipboard.

Vryolak glares at his old friend, saying testily. "If you had been any other man, I'd have killed you out for that remark."

"And then you'd be down one assistant." The lieutenant calmly replies, not at all bothered by the comment. He's heard the man say similar thing in their time together.

Vryolak never understood how the mind of his longtime friend and comrade, Theodore Savin, worked. He and the lizard Faunus had known each other since their days as members of the Menagerie Liberation Army, twenty-five years ago, back during the Faunus Revolution. They have made quite the team since they met, with Savin being the cold-blooded, logical brain to his hot-blooded, emotional brawn. He may be the leader of this group, but Vryolak knew he would've led the organization to the ground without Savin at his side. He was the one who could calm the Bull Faunus down, and even Miklos understands the importance of staying level-headed, especially after this debacle. Especially now, as they were finally close to taking over the White Fang, a coup that they've been planning for years.

They were nearly ready; thanks to the new hardware they've received from their newest partners.

 _Speaking of whom,_ Vryolak remembers, telling Savin. "Inform our new friends at AIM that their missiles performed just as they calculated, and that we are now open to future dealings. Here's hoping those creepy eggheads give us something that can _really_ turn the tide."

Savin nods, making a note of it on his clipboard. He then asks, "Do you really think Yinsen was able to keep the boy alive?"

Vryolak laughs and replies. "You know as well as I do that Yinsen is a miracle worker. I'd be surprised if he hadn't saved the brat's life."

"And what exactly is to be done about the boy?" Savin asks, before adding, "Our mission was to capture Jacques Schnee and keep him alive for Mr. X to deal the killing blow. But what are we to do about the man's son?"

Vryolak frowns, saying. "For now, we keep him alive and wait for further instructions from Mr. X."

The Bull Faunus may be acting calm now, but on the inside he was panicking like a fresh out-of-basic rookie. Their mysterious benefactor, a man whom simply referred to himself as "Mr. X", had been the reason why their little operation had suddenly taken off. He didn't know who the man was, or what he looked like, or even if he was human or Faunus, but his money was good, and he would keep delivering it so long as they performed a few jobs for him here and there for him.

He had contacted them a year ago, offering his patronage in exchange for a favor, which was to find a certain person. This person happened to be the former commander of the Fang's Vacuo Chapter, and one of Sienna's favorites. They obviously agreed to this request, considering their own hatred for the woman, and accomplished it with extreme efficiency. Since then, their partnership has led to many doors being opened for them, one of which was their recent alliance with Advanced Idea Mechanics.

But with this recent fiasco, there was a chance that Mr. X will slam those doors shut on them. It was only a matter of time before he called them, and Vryolak doubts he'll be anything but pleased.

Suddenly, a Scroll rang on his person, which he pulls out. But it wasn't just any Scroll; it was one that had a single number, one that served as a direct link to Mr. X.

Vryolak starts to shake in fear. _Speak of the Grimm and they shall appear…_

He answers the call, and greets their business partner. "Good day, Mr. X."

The line was silent for a few seconds, before that deep, scrambled, rumbling voice that he's come to fear answers back. **"What happened, Mr. Vryolak?"**

"There had been a, uhm…" The bull Faunus fumbles with his words, answering once finding the right one, " _Complication_ with the operation, sir."

Mr. X replies back, **"A** _ **complication**_ **? Yes, most certainly. I take full responsibility for this error. It would seem that Mr. Schnee had changed his plans at the last minute. I had only learned of that fact just now."**

The Bull Faunus couldn't help but mentally sigh in relief. If Mr. X was willing to admit a mistake then it meant he wasn't in any trouble.

" **I trust no harm has come to young Whitley Schnee?"** Vryolak's heart immediately drops, falling into the deep chasm that was his stomach.

He's not going to lie to Mr. X. He knows full well what happens to those who wrong him. He remembers the pictures that the man sent of that White Fang Officer after he had dealt with him. Miklos Vryolak has fought in a war, and had seen many atrocities during that conflict, the very worst of humanity and faunuskind, and he himself is culpable in quite a few of them. But they all pale in comparison to what Mr. X did to that sorry bastard. The General didn't even want to think how his benefactor made that officer look like _whatever_ it is he saw. He can still see the eyes at night.

"I'm afraid that the boy did indeed suffer some life-threatening injuries. But we were able to save his life." He truthfully answers.

The line is silent for a few seconds. Then the man speaks up again. **"At least you didn't kill him. I would have been… immensely** _ **displeased**_ **if the boy had died, Mr. Vryolak.** **That boy has immense potential, more so than others his age."**

Vryolak blinks, unsure if he heard that right. Did Mr. X just compliment a Schnee? Whatever the youngest Schnee-spawn did had to be quite amazing to have earned Mr. X's praise. He'll have to have Savin look into the boy's background once this call was over.

"So, what do you want us to do about the boy?" He asks.

" **For now, keep the boy there. His disappearance is already being investigated. His immediate release will no doubt raise more questions, and they'll no doubt lead right to your doorstep. The last thing we need is to have unwanted eyes searching for us."**

Vryolak acquiesces to the demands. He then asks, "What about the boy?"

He could practically feel Mr. X breathing down his neck with his next words. **"Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Vryolak. NO HARM MUST COME TO THAT BOY! If I learn that you or any of your men laid a single hand on his little white-haired head, then I'LL be the one to clue those unwanted eyes onto you. I will have the entire Atlesian Army marching on your doorstep faster than you can say, _I surrender_. They will decimate your forces until all that remains is your writhing, pitiful, and broken body begging for the sweet release of death. No harm will come to that boy. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?"**

"Yes, sir, I swear on my honor, no, my _life_ that no further harm will come to the boy!" Vryolak declares, sounding far too fearful for his liking.

" **I will hold you up to that. It will take a while, but I'm sure I can arrange for the boy's release. A prisoner exchange, perhaps. Stand-by for further instructions."** Mr. X commands, before abruptly ending the call.

Vryolak takes a deep breath, calming his nerves. A call from Mr. X is always a test for his fortitude. He is glad his soldiers didn't see him like that, having tried to cultivate a fearsome image.

"So, what did our _friend_ say?" Savin asks, none too rattled by the sudden call.

Vryolak turns to his right hand man and tells him, "Well, the good news is that he'll hold off the Atlesian Army for as long as he can, until an opportunity for a prisoner exchange comes up. Apparently, Mr. X has a soft spot for the little brat, thinks there some value in him or some shit."

"A prisoner exchange could take months, Vryolak, _months_." Savin points out, though he find's Mr. X's fondness for the boy quite curious.

He ponders whether X personally knows the boy. He'll file that tidbit for later, as it might prove fruitful in discerning Mr. X's true identity.

He listens as Vryolak continues, "I know, and during that time, the little shit has to stay in perfect health… if he's alive, that is, considering the fact that we already ripped his chest open."

"He'll live. Remember, it as you said, Yinsen can work _miracles_." Savin says, tapping next to his right eye.

Vryolak grins knowingly and says, "Yeah… anyway, I need you to dig up some dirt on our unwanted guest. I want to know everything. If Mr. X sees some worth in him, then we should know why."

"And see if we can somehow use that to our advantage?" Savin knowingly suggests, clearly understanding where his old friend was going.

And people say _he's_ cold-blooded and heartless?

 _Not that they're wrong,_ he concedes, recalling all of the "questionable" orders he issued back in the war.

Vryolak smiles viciously and says, "Remember our time in basic, Savin? I may have been shit when it came to strategy, but I do remember the most important lesson that Sarge ever taught us: In battle, you must use _every_ advantage available to you."

Savin simply smiles at the implication. With the makings of a plan coming together, he sets out to find whatever information he can gather on their subject. He should probably have everything in less than two minutes, should their compute network be cooperative today. He will make sure that they'll have leverage on their guest should he refuse their offer.

* * *

Yinsen smiles as he tells the boy. "Okay, finished. I'm happy to report that, aside from your heart and head, you have a clean bill of health."

Now sitting up on his cot, Whitley buttons up the brown shirt Yinsen had given him. He knows it's not a silken dress shirt, but it'll have to do for now. As it was connected to his person, he had placed the car battery on his lap. If he is to remain in the world of the living, then he's going to have to lug this battery with him at all times.

 _What a bother._ He thinks, already hating the heavy device.

He looks to Yinsen, who is now reading a few papers. Whitley notices that the man's are furrowed, as though he were disappointed about something. He looks at the papers the Doctor is holding and notices that they have a series of equations on it. He couldn't make out all of the writings, but he can recognize a numerical calculation anywhere. He asks him, "So what's with the paper?"

Yinsen frowns at the boy and tells him, "I'm afraid I may have sugarcoating your condition. You are indeed in good health, but only for as long as that battery remains active. These papers are a series of calculations I made after your surgery."

"And what, pray tell, do these calculations, well, calculate?" The boy asks, though he dreads the answer.

"They were meant to measure how much power remains in that battery…" The boy was right, he doesn't like the answer. He then asks, "Let me guess, it's not going to last long?"

Yinsen adjusts his glasses then explains, "By my estimate, you have close to a week before the battery dies, which in turn will cause the magnet to die, and that will kill _you_."

 _He certainly doesn't mince words; I thought Doctors were supposed to have a good bedside manner._ Whitley thinks, before asking, "So I guess it's going to be a _good_ week? I mean it's going to be my last, so I've got to make it a good one."

The doctor looks at the young man in shock and remarks, "My, you have quite the morbid sense of humor, don't you?"

"Everyone has their own way of coping with their problems. Some people turn to the bottle and others just take drugs. People like me are above such temptations." The boy bluntly replies.

"And what kind of person are you?" Yinsen asks.

Whitley shrugs and replies, "The kind of person who doesn't want their mind and body ruined. I'd kill myself before ruining my beautiful brain with alcohol and drugs."

Then he taps the pacemaker protruding through his chest and says. "Besides, I've already got my body ruined, so all I have left is my mind. After all, my dear grandmother once said that 'a mind is a terrible thing to lose, especially when it's as brilliant as mine.'"

Yinsen can't help but wonder if the boy was either that vain or just trying to put up a brave front, so as to deal with recent trauma. He knows all about Whitley's lineage, considering that the boy's father likes to brag about it. He knew of Toni Stark, and of her unparalleled, once-in-a-lifetime genius mind and the name she made for herself before even marrying Nicholas Schnee. But whether her grandson has inherited her smarts is something that the doctor needs to see for himself.

But there is the chance that the boy is just overselling his own intelligence. Most teenagers tend to think they know everything. Yinsen knows that from experience, both as a former teenage and as a father to one.

A lone tear falls from his right eye, which he quickly wipes away. No tears until he was free, he had promised, not until he can see his family again.

Whitley notices this and confusedly asks, "What, you have something in your eye?"

"Yeah, probably some dust." Yinsen replies and then explains, "And no, not _Dust_ , just dust."

An uncomfortable silence settles between the two. Suddenly, they hear the sounds of heavy boots marching on carved stone. The metal gate, which Whitley didn't even notice until now, pushes back, allowing a small group of armed Faunus in white masks to spill into the makeshift infirmary/living quarters. Whitley notices that two of them are carrying a bleeding and broken man, whom they lay upon another cot located on the other side of the room.

Yinsen immediately runs to the injured man's side and takes his pulse. He turns to the nearest Fang and immediately asks, "What happened?"

"Minotaur happened. The general found out about our unwanted guest and asked to see the mission commander, who is now lying before you knocked out, arm twisted, nose broken, and clothes moist with his own piss." The Fang explains.

Whitley surmises that whoever their Leader is, he didn't approve of them capturing him. The boy honestly didn't know if he should feel worried or relieved. On one hand, he's now in the hands of a brutal terrorist willing to brutally beat one of his own men, but on the other, said terrorist beat the man for capturing him.

"Schnee…" Whitley freezes, now fearing for his life.

He turns to see that one of the Fangs is facing him, with his rifle pointing at his chest. His fear increases when he hears the man growl, "The general wants to see you, now."

Suddenly, Two Faunus grab him by the shoulders, holding him down as another pushes a knapsack onto his face, obstructing his vision. The boy tightens his grip on the car battery, making sure not to let it escape his grasp lest he die.

He hears Yinsen shout, "What are you doing, hasn't the boy been through enough?!"

"The general wanted to speak with him when he woke up. He's awake, so we're taking him to meet the general." Another man replies. "You've done your job, now fix our friend there."

"With all due respect, as his physician, I cannot allow Mr. Schnee to be moved yet."

"With all due respect, Doctor, I don't give two fucks what you want."

Whitley suddenly feels his body being pushed forward, with two strong hands on his shoulders keeping him escaping. Not that he can actually escape, since he can't even see through the burlap sack that placed his head in. With much reluctance, he allows his captors to take him to their leader.

But he still wasn't entirely sure about this.

* * *

"And you're sure of this?" Vryolak asks his second-in-command.

Savin simply stares at the Bull Faunus, unmoving and unfazed, and coolly replies. "Do you doubt my intelligence-gathering, or just my intelligence?"

Vryolak tells him, "No, not in the slightest. It's just I wasn't expecting some young punk to be this… _accomplished_ at such a young age."

To say that Miklos Vryolak is impressed would be an understatement. He is honestly shocked by what Savin had been able to gather on the boy, as well as astounded by the facts within. He can't comprehend how a fifteen year old boy could have a genius-level intellect, already graduate from college with two degrees, and had taken part in research projects for the Atlas Military. Forget Jacques Schnee, they should have been capturing the boy instead.

And just by pure luck, they have done exactly that. Perhaps the Gods were working in their favor this time.

Vryolak smiles victoriously, having thought of a new plan. He could work with this.

"I know that look on your face." Savin observes then asks, "What are you planning?"

"Mr. X said that it would take months before a prisoner exchange can be approved. In that time, we might as well have the boy do some work." Savin raises a brow, honestly surprised by his friend's suggestion.

Before Savin could even ask his comrade to elaborate, they watch as a few of their soldiers march into the room, with two of them dragging a short person in with them. The short one was carrying a car battery that was connected to his chest and he had a burlap sack over his head, no doubt to keep him seeing any possible escape routes. Their guest has finally arrived.

* * *

Whitley groans in annoyance as his guards roughly shove him into a chair and roughly remove the burlap sack from his head. For the first time since he came to this place, Whitley Schnee has finally come face-to-face with the leaders of his captors. The boy looks at the illuminated faces of his captors, observing and taking notes of their appearances.

The man sitting across from him, he has this look in his eyes that Whitley doesn't like. He has long red hair, which seems to have dulled with age, and intense-looking brown eyes that just ooze with condescension. He also looks like an experienced fighter, if his rippling, scarred muscles were any clue, each scar and burn on those arms telling the story of a man who lives for battle, and there were plenty. His fully-grown and sharpened bull horns jut out from beneath his hair, rising like knives stabbing the air.

 _This must be the "Minotaur" these people had been talking about._ Whitley assumes, as the man certainly fits the description of a mythological beast.

He looks to the man's right and sees a lithe yet muscular man standing behind him, his arms behind his back and his face emotionless. His eyes, a cold and unnervingly steel blue, were gazing upon him, which made the boy's blood run cold. He can't explain it, but that gaze didn't feel like an animal watching its prey, but a detached scientist observing his latest test subject. The air around this man just breathed of intelligence, like he can think three steps ahead of him. Whitley decides this is someone he should really not cross, for he seems like a coldblooded killer.

He knows these men are going to try and break him. He won't let them.

"I hope your stay here has been to your liking thus far, Mr. Schnee." Minotaur amicably asks, but one can hear the faintest hint of condescension in his tone.

Whitley bites his tongue, not dignifying the man with a response.

Minotaur laughs, finding humor in the boy's lack of response and says, "So the silent treatment, eh? Heh, not that I blame you, I mean if someone shot me out of the sky I wouldn't talk to them either."

Whitley keeps his silence, keeping his cold gaze upon the stronger-looking man.

"Not one word, are you sure?" Minotaur smiles and mockingly asks, "Blink once for yes, twice for no."

Whitley doesn't blink, despite the dryness in his eyes.

"Hmmm, a straight shooter, aren't you? I can respect that, Gods know I have little patience for bullshit as well." Minotaur stands from his chair, looking down upon the boy, who only slightly cows under the gaze.

"Well, listen up well, _boy_ , because I have a proposition for you." Minotaur snaps his fingers, with Coldblood, as Whitley has taken to calling him, handing him a pile of papers. The Bull Faunus continues, "I've had my friend here search everything there is to know about you, and what I saw impressed me. And it is what he found that has kept you from dying."

Whitley's eyes were starting to slightly waver, but he kept his gaze firm and impassive.

"To put it simply, we know everything about you. We know your birthday, blood type, the schools you went to, what restaurants you frequent, and probably even the times you take a piss. And speaking of schools, I gotta say, ATI graduate at fifteen, quite the accomplishment. So imagine my surprise when he found out you were part of some big Atlas R&D projects, other than the oh-so public M3 Missile. Does 'Project: Dead Whistle' ring any bells."

Now Whitley is starting to panic. How could they've known about his part in Dead Whistle? The only explanation is that Atlas has a leak, one that is spilling dangerous secrets to these criminals. Whatever composure he had immediately fell.

The boy asks, "What do you want?"

"Ah, so he can speak! It's funny, for a moment I though you lost your tongue too." Minotaur mockingly jokes, causing his soldiers to laugh. Whitley didn't find it funny in the slightest.

The man leans in and menacingly intones, "What we want are _weapons,_ Mr. Schnee. Biological, Chemical, Dust, and Cybernetic and whatever else you can think of. Basically, you build it, we use it, and let you live. What is your answer?"

Whitley leans back in his chair thinking about it. He weighs the costs and benefits, analyzes the outreaching consequences of such a choice, and considers his own personal feelings on the matter. Seconds later, he decides upon his response.

He leans in, smiles at the man, and politely says, "Sorry, but I don't make deals with the bastard child of bestiality enthusiasts."

The boy smiles smugly, proud of what he had just said. His father would no doubt approve of such an answer. Even his sisters would be impressed if they had seen that.

Minotaur, on the other hand, is not impressed. In fact, he doesn't even look insulted. To Whitley's shock, the man is actually chuckling and didn't look the least upset.

"Boy, you must think rather highly of yourself if you thought I'd let a comment like that bother me. I've been called worse, especially at your age."

Angry at the man's tone, Whitley growls lowly, "Well, I'm still not going to do it. Atlas is obviously going to rescue me. It'll only be a few days before I'm back in Atlas."

Minotaur smirks viciously and strokes his chin, "You say that, but from the look of things you don't have that many days left. Yinsen is a smart one, no doubt about it, but he did have to work with very few resources… like car batteries, for instance."

The man reaches over the table and easily snatches the battery from the boy's hands. He then slowly tugs on the wires connecting the pacemaker to the battery. Whitley begins to panic, his breath hitching up and his eyes dilating in fear.

"Such a crude device, don't you think? Why all it takes is a _single_ pull…" He pinches one of the wires and slowly begins to pull it.

A hand wraps around his tightly, locking it in place. Minotaur turns to see Coldblood staring down at him, his eyes slightly furrowed. For a brief moment, the two men stare each other down, as though they were having a mental debate. The winner is declared as Minotaur relinquishes his hold on the wire.

"I think you get the picture. Take Mr. Schnee back to his "room"." Minotaur commands. Two men grab the boy out of his chair, again cloaking his head, dragging him away.

* * *

After the boy is led away, Vryolak glares at Savin. "I wasn't going to hurt the punk."

"You were rising to his bait. The bestiality comment got to you, despite your comments. The boy thinks he's in control of the situation. We don't need to scare him to prove him wrong." Savin simply says and then adds, "Besides, It's foolish in trying to coerce the boy when we know nothing of his technical prowess."

"What is there to know? The reports you gave me say he's a genius, so therefore he's a genius."

"It is not the first time a Schnee's skills have been embellished. The files on the projects he's worked on have a lot of missing information, no doubt having been classified." The Snake-Faunus notes.

"Speaking of classified, just what is "Dead Whistle"?" Vryolak asks, genuinely curious to know the details.

"I don't know." Savin replies, having no knowledge on the project other than that it was classified and that Whitley Schnee had some role in it.

Filing that bit for later investigation, He continues with his explanation. "Now, as I was saying. Because of these factors, we cannot say for certain that the boy is a genius. But I believe I may have a way that might allow us to test his supposed genius. If he prevails, then we have all the proof we need. Should he still refuse our offer, well, I have a plan for that as well."

Interested, Vryolak asks what his friend intends to do. What Savin says brings smile to his face. It was a brilliant plan, one that could only have been thought up by a man who rightly deserves the moniker of "Coldblood" Savin.

And people thought he was cruel.

* * *

Whitley drops to his knees as the Guards shove him back into his spacious cell. Miraculously, he doesn't drop the battery when his body falls to the ground. He winces in pain, as the hard stone scrapes his knees, tearing the fabric of his pants. Scraping one's knees is painful; He knows this, having scraped his own many times as a child. But he doubts anything can compare to having one's heart being shredded apart by metal fragments. It is a pain that came quite close to experiencing only minutes ago.

But right now, nothing hurt more than his damaged pride. He had tried so hard not to show his fear before these animals, and he caves in like a coward. Would his sisters have done the same thing, if they were in his situation? Would his father? What about his grandmother, the bravest person he ever knew?

"Damn it…" The boy angrily growls.

"Are you alright, my boy?" He hears Yinsen ask.

In his moment of weakness, he had forgotten about his roommate and fellow prisoner. He can't help but feel humiliated having shown such a shameful display.

"I'm fine. It's just a scratch." He tells the doctor.

"Well, it's going to be a very infectious scratch if you don't clean that." Yinsen says, only for Whitley to stare incredulously at him. The Doctors sighs, wondering how a fifteen year old can still act like a five year old, and explains. "Look, this room, and I use that word lightly, has been serving as the groups infirmary since I arrived. I've patched many of their members, all of whom have had different sicknesses and last time I checked, a damp, musty cave is hardly a sterile environment to begin with."

The doctor points to the other side of the cave, over to a table where various medical tools are located. "There is some rubbing alcohol and gauze on that table. You'll have to treat your scratch; I'm going to be busy patching-up this poor soul." He tells the boy, pointing toward the unconscious fang lying on a cot close to him.

The doctor returns to treating his new patient, leaving Whitley to care for his own injury. Having no choice, the boy stands, slightly wincing as a light breeze collides against his scratched knees. He looks down and sees that his knees were indeed scratched, and they were bleeding. Hard rock meeting soft flesh is not a great combination.

 _Okay, I'm starting to understand the appeal of Aura._ Whitley thinks glumly, wishing he had a special soul-energy barrier helping him now.

He walks over to the table and takes the alcohol, some cotton balls and disinfectant wipes, along with a roll of sterile gauze. They were easy to find, having been kept in labelled containers. Yinsen likes to keep his supplies organized. It is a trait that the boy can respect in a fellow intellectual. He sits down on a stool, setting the battery aside upon the table.

Remembering what he learned during ATI's first aid seminars, he goes about treating his scratches. First he takes the disinfectant wipes and cleans the blood off, feeling a slight stinging in his knees as he dabs them. Once all the blood is wiped away, he takes a few cotton balls and soaks them with the alcohol. He then dabs the fluffy, white orbs against the dry scratches, sterilizing them. Once finished, he tosses the cotton balls aside, and tightly wraps the gauze around his knees.

He smiles, looking at his handiwork. _And I thought those seminars were a waste of time. Whoever said Whitley Schnee can't take care of himself should check their facts._

As Whitley celebrates his own little personal victory, he hears the doors slam open, and watches in as armed guards march in. To his shock, they were being led by the coldblooded-looking man he had seen during his meeting with group's leaders. The man walks over to Yinsen and asks in a rather detached and unemotional voice, "Where are they?"

"I'm sorry; you're going to have to be more specific." Yinsen asks, not even dignifying the man with a gaze, as he continues working on the injured Fang.

If Coldblood is annoyed, he didn't show it, this time asking with more specific detail, "The car batteries, Yinsen. The ones we loaned to you to keep our guest alive."

Yinsen stares challengingly at the man, "I'm with a patient right now. Come ask me later."

The Snake-Faunus sighs and pulls out a pistol and aims point-blank at the Doctors forehead. He coolly warns, "You might want to rethink those words, doctor. You swore an oath to help the sick and dying, to preserve life. One can't help and wonder how a doctor can honor said oath when he's dead."

He cocks the gun, finger upon the trigger, ready to end the doctor's life should he resist further.

Yinsen, despite the gun in his face, does not even blink. Whitley suspects that this has happened more than once. This can only mean that the Doctor is no way affiliated with the White Fang, and that he is just another human captured by the terrorist group, or at least a far more extreme splinter cell.

Then he wonders why additional batteries were needed, only to remember how long his current one will last. He suddenly feels worried, both for himself and for the doctor. He didn't want the doctor to die, but he didn't want to die as well. The doctor finally relents, pointing to a far off corner behind him. Coldblood gestures to his troops, who promptly march over to the area in question. Whitley watches as they uncover a pile of car batteries, ones meant to keep him alive, and carry them away.

The boy stays where he is. He didn't dare move from his spot, fearing what would happen should he challenge them. As the last of the batteries is finally carried away, the Snake Faunus holsters his pistol.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Yinsen. You can now finish healing this man unimpeded." He says, voice void of any emotion.

Yinsen can only glare at the man, his eyes so full of fury that it looks as though he were trying to incinerate the extremist with them. Coldblood disregards the glare and walks away to the open door. But just as he reached it, he stops and looks over to where Whitley is sitting. The boy freezes under his cold, unfeeling gaze. He was right on the nose about this one; he's far more dangerous than the so-called Minotaur.

"Mr. Schnee," He begins, crossing his arms. "If you are still considering not taking my colleague's deal, then know that I hope you don't."

Whitley, more surprised than scared, asks, "What do you mean?"

"Vryolak made that offer based on incomplete information gathered from dubious sources. He's always been reckless to the point of stupidity. I, however, believe in factual evidence, which is why I've decided to offer another deal, no, a _challenge_."

The boy is now shocked, wondering where exactly this nearly-robotic man is going with his little speech.

"I've taken the surplus of batteries meant to power that device in your chest. You only have just the one in your current possession, and it is running low on power, if what Yinsen told me after your operation was true. That is your situation, which is where my challenge comes in."

The youngest Schnee is now listening with rapt attention. Just what exactly is this man challenging him to do?

"If you are indeed the genius my sources say you are, then you will have no problem figuring out a way to save your own life. Necessity, as you know, is the mother of invention. We will provide you with any materials you need, and you may use them as you see fit. Oh, and you will have an armed guard watching over you, should you try to build something that would aid in an escape. Not that you'd be able to … I'm afraid your Doctor has failed to share an important detail with you."

Yinsen's glare goes from furious to hateful. Whitley can only stare at the doctor as the Snake Faunus continues. "The battery that is currently powering that pacemaker, as I was told, is meant to last a week. What Yinsen neglected to tell you is that you've been unconscious for close to four days. The date is April 27th."

Whitley feels his heart drop to the soles of his feet. "You have three days to live. I suggest you use that time to find a solution."

Coldblood walks through the door and says aloud, "Have a nice day."

Having a nice day is now the least of Whitley's worries. He has only three days to live. He has only three days of continued existence before the power in the magnet runs out; dooming him to suffer what he can only assume will be a slow and agonizingly painful death that will last just as long. It sounds like Hell in his opinion. He never put much stock in the idea of an afterlife, as he believes the only hell one can find in life is made by other people. Heaven, in his opinion, is what you make of your life.

And where has life led him now? It has led him to an underground cave, no doubt located in a scorching desert, suffering an unimaginable pain that was currently being staved off, the thought of which is causing him immense mental torment. This is as close to Hell that he's ever going to experience. He didn't like it one bit.

He looks to Yinsen, who averts his eyes in shame. The man turns his back and immediately returns to treating the injured Fang left in his care. Whitley has had enough excitement for today. Looking over at his cot, he decides that he needs a nap. Perhaps some relaxation can help him think of a way to remedy his current predicament.

He picks up the battery and walks over to the cot, his movements slightly impeded by the gauze on his knees. He reaches the worn mattress and sits down, setting the battery on the table where he had found it. He's glad that he doesn't toss and turn in his sleep. He fluffs the pillow and lays his head down on it.

Within minutes, he is asleep.

* * *

" _Get down, Incoming!"_

" _I don't see anything!"_

 _Whitley feels numb. His eyes open, and his vision is blurry. Everything looks so bright, yet so fuzzy. He can see fuzzy, dark images running about, but they have no distinct features. He can still hear, but it feels like pillows are pressing against his ears. His back feels stiff, like he has been resting on a rock. He also feels warm, no, he feels hot. He also feels a pressure on his forehead. Reaching up with his right hand, he tries to feel for the strange sensation. He stops when he feels something cold, wet, and sticky._

 _Bringing his hand down, he notices something very unusual about his fingers. They were red, a really dark shade of red. A Red so richly dark, that for a moment, he thought that his skin had been peeled off. If it wasn't musculature, than what could it be?_

 _A sobering and altogether frightening realization came._

This is blood… this is MY blood!

 _With that epiphany, the world came back into focus for him. What he sees shocks and frightens him. In the distance, lying flat on its stomach and missing a wing is the Bullhead he had been traveling on. Fire and smoke billow from the cracked canopy of the cockpit, ascending so far into the sky that it seemed to disappear into the blue mists. He sees three dots up above, circling one another as though playing a high altitude game of tag. He watches one of the dots disappear, replaced by a trail of black barreling into the distance. The other two break off, disappearing into the sky as well._

I have to get out of here! I need to get to safety!

 _The panicking boy rises and runs. He passes the Atlesian soldiers desperately fighting off their attackers, paying mind to the bullets and missiles flying near and over his head. Explosions erupt around him, kicking sand and metal particulates into his face, yet he charges onward, desperate to find safety. He finds a large rock to take cover, jumping right behind it. His breathing is sharp and sporadic, and he feels sweat rolling down his face. An explosion erupts behind his hiding place, pelting his head with clumps of petrified sand._

 _He hears something fall beside him. Looking over to his right, he sees, lying a good few feet away from him, a body. Only, he doesn't know what part of the body he's looking at. Had it been the front or the back of a person? Was he staring at its face or the base of its head? He couldn't tell, the corpse being so mangled that he can't even begin to describe it. He feels as though he is going to vomit, but nothing comes up._

 _He then notices something else. Lying next to the body was an Atlesian assault rifle, undamaged and probably still loaded. Should he pick it up? Can he defend himself with it? He's spent enough time designing weapons over the years to know how they work. He slowly moves to take it._

 _Then something plants itself between the gun and the boy. Whitley looks at the strange object, and notes that it looks familiar. It has a polished metallic finish, was about the size of a small thermos, and had small fins circling a gaping hole. It was some kind of projectile._

 _Emblazoned upon the miniature missile, in finely etched lettering layered over with blue paint, was an inscription._

 ** _SDC MUNITIONS, M3 ROCKET_**

 _Whitley jumps back and screams. "HOLY SHI-"_

 _He waits for the explosion, but the M3 doesn't explode. Whitley sighs in relief and picks up the rifle. He cocks it and aims, only to find nothing in his range. The battlefield has disappeared, along with the desert. In fact, all he sees is nothing, for there was nothing but a dark void. Whitley Schnee is standing in darkness._

" _How does it feel?" The boy jumps at the sudden but familiar voice._

 _He lowers the rifle and searches for the owner of that voice. He looks left, right, up and down, but he doesn't find anyone. He's getting scared and he's not afraid to even admit the fact. How could anyone stay calm in his circumstance?_

" _How does it feel?"_

 _He shouts, "What does what feel like?!"_

 _The voice repeats. "How does it feel?"_

" _I don't know! I don't understand!" He fearfully screams, raising his rifle into the air._

 _He pulls the trigger, intent on silencing the mysterious voice. He pulls the trigger, and to his shock, the weapon doesn't fire any bullets. Then the rifle disintegrates, becoming ash in his hands as the dust flies into the air, disappearing into the darkness._

 _Whatever semblance of courage remained in the boy disappears. The boy is now terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought, for his thought are racing. What did the voice mean by "How does it feel?" What is trying to ask? How does it feel to be scared? How does it feel to have no control of a situation? Or how does it feel knowing that you are going to die?_

 _He doesn't understand._

 _Then a girl's voice whispers into his ear, "How does it feel?"_

 _He turns to face the speaker. He shocked by who he sees. It was Weiss, dressed in her usual attire, smiling creepily and knowingly at him. That gaze of hers would have frightened him, if it weren't for that fact that he saw something that really made his heart stop. His sister had a large and gaping, bloody hole in her chest, right where her heart should be._

" _How does it feel?" A woman's voice asks from behind him._

 _He turns to find his oldest sister, Winter, dressed in her uniform, that same chilling expression on her own face. She too has a hole in her chest._

" _How does it feel?" He turns to see his mother, sober and equally grim, staring at him. She too has a hole in her chest._

 _The question repeats itself and each time, he sees a new face. He sees Pepper and Happy. He sees the Stanes. He sees Klein. He sees the soldiers who had protecting him, along with so many other faces he had come to know in his short life._

 _Surrounded on all sides, Whitley cowers under this mob's judging gazes. He didn't understand what they were accusing him of. Then he wondered why he called their question an accusation. What can he be accused of if he hasn't done anything to them? What crime is he guilty of?_

 _He closes his eyes, wishing for his torment to end. Then, from out of nowhere, he hears his own voice. "How does it feel?"_

 _He didn't speak, so why had he heard his own voice?_

 _He opens his eyes and sees that the mob has disappeared. Then he feels a new presence standing behind him, causing him to turn around. Standing before him was none other than himself, arms behind his back and with a smug grin on his face. His double was dressed in his usual clothing, finely pressed and immaculately pressed. He also had no bloodied hole in his chest._

 _Then he watches his Doppelganger hold his right arm out. In his hand, he holds an unexploded M3 missile, which he presses into the original's face. Whitley watches the weapon, fearing that it might explode._

 _Then his double pulls the missile back, bringing it to his side. Not-Whitley smiles warmly, as though he had just pulled a harmless prank. Whitley sighs in relief, glad that his wasn't in danger._

 _Then a sharp and burning pain erupts in his chest. He can't even begin to describe the pain he was in, having no words to fully articulate his pain. All he can say it was immensely painful, so painful that he can't even scream. He looks down and sees that his double has shoved the missile right in his heart, the metal cylinder slowly digging its way into his chest, blood gushing as it goes deeper._

 _He looks at Not-Whitley and is disturbed by the almost sadistic smirk on his face. He watches as the double pulls his arm back. Whitley feels the tug on his chest before even registering the moving arm. He looks down and almost vomits at the sight he sees._

 _Clutched in the double's bloodied hand is his heart, veins spurting blood and beating rapidly. If Whitley could scream, he probably would've let out the most bloodcurdling one imaginable. But he can't, for he is losing air._

" _How does it feel?"_

 _He looks up and is shocked to see his father standing in his doppelganger's place. The man was dressed in his white business suit, his right sleeve now a deep crimson as his hand grips his son's heart. The man looks at the boy with cold eyes and asks, "How does it feel to be nothing?"_

 _He crushes the heart in his hand, body tissue, muscle, and blood exploding everywhere._

 _The man vanishes, leaving his son writhing in the cold, dark abyss, gasping for air and clutching his bleeding and open chest. Whitley can feel it in his bones. He is going to die. He is going to die and nobody will miss him. It's almost frightening how much he accepts that fact._

 _As he waits for the end, he hears a new voice, one he hasn't heard in years._

" _Trust me, you will be missed."_

 _The voice is soft and encouraging, but also blunt and mocking. It sounds old and caring, but also spirited and challenging. He knew only one person who could speak like that. He looks up and immediately calms. To his surprise, he is no longer in pain, nor running out of hair. He just feels safe._

 _How could he not, considering who was standing in front of him. She had the same worn but warm hazel eyes, watching him through thick-rimmed glasses. Her white hair, once a lustrous black, is scrunched up into a bun. She is dressed in the same casual clothing she always wore when he and his sisters had visited her._

 _He smiles and greets, "Hi, grandma."_

 _Toni Schnee smiles back, "Sup, Short Round?"_

 _Taking his hand, she helps him to his feet. Whitley immediately hugs her, her arms clasped tightly around her waist. Toni laughs and tells the boy, "Don't go crushing me now, Kid. I've got something to show you…"_

 _Whitley lets go and looks at her in confusion. To his surprise, she is holding a rolled-up blueprint. The old woman smirks, saying, "You're gonna love what I have."_

 _Whitley has a feeling that he is. His grandmother unfurls the blueprint, revealing the plans drawn upon it. Whitley recognizes the blueprint, having seen it many times on his grandmother's work desk. He spent hour memorizing them, soaking in all the detailed calculations that went into explaining its function, as well as what it would create. It was his grandmother's unfinished masterpiece, a creation that would have been her Magnum Opus had she actually built it. It was now the only chance he had at saving his own life._

 _The Repulsor-Tech Energy Node, Automated Regenerative Container._

 _His grandmother called it the Arc Reactor._

* * *

 **Oh boy, that was intense. Now, I have a few announcements to make, before I go on to answer some questions posted in the reviews. Firstly, Starting with the next chapter, you will all notice an improvement in the quality of this story's writing. I'm trying to write third-person, and I've been told that it's better to use past-tense when writing it.**

 **Second, I've seen Captain Marvel. Here's my opinion, it was good, but it wasn't the greatest movie in the world. I just have no strong opinions about it. I enjoyed it as a popcorn flick, and I praise Jackson's, Larson's, Mendelsohn's, and Law's performances, but nothing can top Infinity War in terms of scope and ambition. Well, except maybe Endgame, but it hasn't come out yet.**

 **Now, there will be a Captain Marvel in this Fic, and it won't be Mar-Vel or Carol Danvers (Both of whom will appear). In fact, This universe's Captain will be a RWBY character and they won't appear until like volume 6 of this story. Brotherhoof and I are still discussing how to introduce the character. Which RWBY character will become the Captain, I leave to your speculation.**

 **Now, on to some questions that have been asked, at least the one's related to the plot.**

 **No, Captain Vale is not related in any way, shape, or form to Jaune Arc. In fact, He'll make his debut during the six month time skip.**

 **Rhodey will not be War Machine. Once you meet him, you'll understand why.**

 **KC stands for Kingdom Calendar, a calendar system that was put in place after the establishment of the first successful kingdoms of remnant, which happened 2,008 years before canon. Anything that happened before that period is listed under BK (Before Kingdoms).**

 **Yes, Whitley will have a love interest, and they are a girl. Who it is I already decided upon, so start running bets on who it is.**

 **Well, that's about it. The next chapter will be uploaded next month, during which time I will be working on college finals, moving into an apartment, getting a job, and seeing Shazam and Avengers: Endgame.**

 **Until next time, True Believers!**


	4. Refusing the Call, Part 2 of 2

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **Edited June 5th, 2019: Had to slightly change how the reactor was built, so that it can mesh well with what is planned for a later Story Arc.**

 **Edited December 13, 2019: Cleaned the chapter up a bit. Still needs work**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter 3: Refusing the Call (And accepting the consequences), Pt. 2**

* * *

In one of the many caverns within the abandoned mine, the White Fang was stockpiling the car batteries taken from their guest. Savin looked on from the entrance, staring impassively as his loyal soldiers carry out the task he had assigned them. These car batteries were meant to power the device that was keeping their hostage alive, and now they were being served as leverage against him. If all goes according to his plan, the Schnee will have demonstrated his impressive intelligence, and Vryolak and he will have gained a valuable asset in their bid for control over the White Fang.

That is, if their mysterious benefactors words about the Schnee proved to be true.

"Sir, do you really think this plan is wise?" Savin heard one of his men asked. He can't fault the man for his doubts.

The Snake Faunus looked at the man who asked and replied. "Yes, this is the best course of action."

It was the most efficient course of action, in his opinion. If Vryolak had been taking point in this endeavor, he would have used this plan as a way of coercing the young Schnee into cooperating with them. However, what was to guarantee that the Schnee will deliver on whatever demands they make? For all Savin knew they had probably picked up the one Schnee with the least intelligence, second only to the boy's admittedly boorish father.

 _And I doubt the praise of a man we've never actually met proves anything._ Savin thought derisively, remembering Mr. X's words about the boy's so-called gifts.

The last thing he'll ever do is accept the vague words of some stranger as the factual truth.

His plan, if successful, will have proven the boy's intelligence as well as his skills. Unlike Vryolak, Savin will not force the boy to cooperate through fear, but rather through manipulation. If there was any trait that Whitley Schnee possibly shared with his father than it was probably Pride, which the coldblooded Faunus will fully exploit. By issuing that ultimatum, he had challenged the Schnee's pride as a supposed innovator. The young man will have wanted to live longer, no question, but he wouldn't let that slight against his intelligence stand.

What he hadn't told the boy was that he had planned to return the batteries anyway. What point was there in having a hostage, if said hostage was dead?

Plus, there was also the fact that Mr. X will personally see to it that he and his comrades are wiped from the face of Remnant if the boy died. Not that he would let that happen.

Either way, The Schnee will live and so will they.

If the boy proved to be uncooperative after this little challenge, well, then it was time for his back-up plan to be used. It was the plan that Vryolak appreciated the most.

Still, he can't help but wonder. _What will Yinsen do?_

If the doctor was the same man he and Vryolak had met years ago, then he will doubtlessly have already tried to help the boy. He wondered if Schnee knew the truth about Yinsen.

He'll just have to wait and see.

* * *

"What am I to do?" Ho Yinsen asked himself, as he watched his newest patient scribble away at the desk he had appropriated.

Admittedly, he had been concerned for the boy when he began to thrash about in his sleep. The boy looked as though he were suffering the worst kind of nightmare, one that preyed on his traumatized psyche and insecurities. He had worked with enough children to recognize the tell-tale signs of post-traumatic stress. But he hadn't the slightest clue as to how he can help with psychological distress.

Throughout his career as a doctor, the man has worked with many individuals who have suffered the worst kind of injury. He has dealt with those who have lost a literal part of themselves, either it be an arm, leg, or a hand. Name a single part of the human body, and he's probably replaced it. But when it comes to the complex machine that is the human mind, he was hopeless. Replacing lost limbs is one thing, but fixing a person's mind is another.

That job usually went to his wife, Cho. He missed her. He missed his children.

 _Don't cry; you'll see them again._ Yinsen reminded himself, fighting back the tears threatening to fall.

He had a patient to think of, one that needed his utmost attention. This boy had just endured a traumatic experience, and he needed the doctor's help to stop him from hurting himself.

But when Whitley Schnee had woken up, looking like a man possessed, Yinsen was shocked by what he did. The first thing the boy did was to make a request, and he asked for only two things from Yinsen. He had asked for paper, lots of paper, and pencils, preferably of the no. 2 variety. Luckily for him, Yinsen had those items in bulk. He needed those to keep track of his inventory, as well as record the symptoms and recoveries of those he had operated on.

The boy snatched the papers and pencils from him with an almost manic speed and retreated to a nearby table, where he began to scribble down whatever it was the boy needed to write. He didn't know what compelled the boy to do so, but he reasoned that it was some form of therapy. As his wife told him, people reacted to trauma in their own ways. There were some who simply tried to bottle their emotions in, those who just worked the problem, and then there were the rare few who simply tried to ignore their situation by focusing on another task.

Whitley Schnee was apparently the former.

Then again, the boy had been told he only had three days to live, and he had less time than that to solve his dilemma. He doubted Savin would let the boy die, knowing the man not to be careless as to lose his one bargaining chip. Despite his curiosity about the boy's impromptu writing session, he was not going to pry unless he absolutely had to. Plus, the boy probably wouldn't appreciate the interruption. He knew how teenagers felt about Adults interfering with their plans; he had many years of parenthood to attest to that fact.  
For now, Yinsen will simply leave the boy to his own devices, until such time as he can approach the young man without any fear of worsening his doubtlessly already foul mood.

The next couple of hours saw Yinsen going about his business. As the boy continued scribbling down on the papers, the doctor kept himself busy by going over his daily routine. First, he took stock of his supplies, both the medical and the personal necessities. Then, he looked over the other patient that was brought in, whom had no doubt been on the receiving end of the Minotaur's wrath. The man will live, but he won't be able to breathe through his nose for a while. Or hold anything with his left hand. Vryolak really did a number on the man.

After looking over his patient, the Doctor set about fixing up his dinner. It was getting close to his own bedtime, if his estimates were correct, and he preferred to sleep after a healthy meal. At least a meal that was as healthy as he could make it with the ingredients he had on hand. The Fang's soldiers mostly functioned on a protein-based diet, with a moderate fiber intake. Yinsen was no fitness nut, but even he knew the benefits of a balanced diet.

As the White Fang neglected to restock his makeshift pantry and refrigerator, he had no choice but to boil the large bag of rice he had been saving for emergencies. He knew the rice will be bland and tasteless, but food was food. He prepared the fire, the pot, and poured the water into it. He boiled the water for several minutes and once it began to bubble, releasing steam into the air, he poured some of the rice into the bowl. As he stirred the pot, he watched his young patient, waiting to see if he'll join him for dinner.

If the young Schnee had noticed that dinner was being prepared, he didn't show it. His focus was still on the papers, which had long since been separated into piles, no doubt organized by their state of use. He also noticed that there were a few crumpled pieces of paper scattered around the boy, littered about the chair he sat upon. The boy must've made a few mistakes doing whatever he was doing.

Once the rice had been properly prepared, Yinsen went over to his poorly-built and old pantry and pulled out a bowl, spoon, and a ladle. Dipping the ladle into the still boiling-hot pot, the man pulled out some rice and poured into the bowl, which he had placed on a small, metal meal tray he had set beside the now extinguished fire. He wasn't going to hold a steaming ceramic bowl in his hands. His dinner ready, he retreated to his bed and sat upon it, with the metal tray in his lap and spoon in hand, ready to dig into the boiled rice.

Steam rose from the bowl, wafting high into the air. Yinsen took a sniff and much to his displeasure, found that the rice smelled exactly as he expected. Bland and nearly odorless, so it will be as tasteless as he can expect. Oh, how he wished he had some butter or an egg to add some flavor. But the White Fang denied him those privileges. They preferred to keep the better food to themselves, rather than share it with prisoners.

The doctor dismissively thought, _Just another reason for me to hate them._

He then added as an afterthought, _Not that they can make me hate them any more than I already do._

He dug his spoon into the bowl, sloshing the admittedly frothy water flooding the bowl. He then raised the spoon to his mouth and took a sip. Soft, miniscule beads of boiled rice mixed with water flood his mouth. The rice was indeed bland and tasteless, just as he expected. He missed having a pantry.

Still, food was food. He continued eating his dinner, all while keeping an eye on the traumatized youth scribbling away at the desk adjacent to him. It was around his third and last serving that the Doctor's patience finally gave in. He cannot, in good conscience, sleep while a troubled young man stayed awake. He rose from his cot and approached Whitley.

The man was careful in his steps, being slow and steady in his pace, so as not to startle the boy. Once he reached him, he peered over his shoulder to look at the paper. To his surprise, the boy was actually writing out a formula and from the look of the amount of papers he had already used, a very complicated one at that. Yinsen was no theoretical physicist, but even he recognized a complex energy equation. Whatever reasons the young man had for working on one escaped him.

"You know, it's considered rude to sneak up on someone while they work." He heard Whitley say, who then added. "It's also suspicious, so please stop being that and just ask what I'm doing like a normal person."

Yinsen composed himself and asked, "What are you doing, anyway?" before adding a passive-aggressive, "He asks, like a normal person."

If Whitley was unamused by those parroted words, he didn't show it. He explained to the nosy doctor, "What I am doing is figuring out a complex formula, one that serves as a framework for a device that I think, no, know will save my life."

His interest piqued, Yinsen then asked, "And just how will this device save your life?"

Whitley turned in his chair to face the older man. Through bloodshot eyes, which slightly worried the doctor, he stared straight at him.

He then asked, "Have you ever heard of the Arc Reactor?"

Yinsen blinked at those words. He knew what the Arc Reactor was; nearly anyone who had lived during the height of Toni Stark's genius knew what it was. Often referred to as Stark's unfinished masterpiece, the so-called "greatest invention never made", the Arc Reactor was intended to be a new source of fuel, an alternative to Dust, oil, and even solar energy. Unfortunately, the project died with the genius, who had spent the last few decades of her life trying to build a working reactor. It seemed that her Grandson was intent on finishing this project in her stead.

"Yes, I've heard of it. I'm just wondering how it's going to save your life." He honestly said.

"Well, I plan to use it to power a replacement for this," Whitley pointed to the electromagnet in his chest and then at the papers, "But first I need to solve this."

Yinsen looked at the papers, and the equations scribbled upon them, and asked, "And what exactly is this?"

"A formula I've been working on. My grandmother already worked out how the reactor would work," The boy replied before adding, "What I'm trying to figure out is how I can make it smaller."

A slightly grey eyebrow rose on Yinsen's face as he inquired, "How small, exactly?"

Whitley smirked, "Small enough to fit the hole in my chest."

Yinsen saw the look on the boy's face. That smirk told him that the boy was close to figuring out the complex equation. Close enough that he deigned to take some time to explain himself to an old man who had interrupted his work. He didn't know if the boy was confident or arrogant, but he definitely knew what he was doing.

The doctor spoke, "Alright, I'll bite, this might work-"

Whitley interrupted him, "Will work!"

Yinsen groaned, not liking the interruption, and continued, "Okay, will work. But how exactly are you going to build this miniature reactor?"

"That Creepy Faunus said they'll provide the necessary materials. The real challenge is trying to figure out what exactly I'll need to build it."

Yinsen blinked at the boy's choice of wording, _Challenge?_

Did the boy not fully grasp the reality of his situation? He was sitting deep in a cave, with shrapnel slowly eating away at his heart, the only thing keeping him being a shoddily-built electromagnet. Yet, the one thing he was most concerned about was the promise of a difficult challenge?

 _Although, the challenge presented to him was his one chance at improving his odds of survival._ Yinsen realized, but he still wondered whether the boy had his priorities straightened out. He didn't seem all that concerned about his imminent death.

 _That's worrying,_ he thought to himself. He may not be a psychiatrist like his wife, but he was definitely going to help the boy sort out his issues. He did swear an oath to do so.

"And you're almost finished?" He asked.

"I was this close." Whitley said, pinching his thumb and index finger closely together. He then rudely added, "So, if you could just scoot back to your bed, that'd be great…"

He then waved his hand, trying to shoo the doctor away. Taking the hint, the doctor walked away. Returning to his cot, the man lied down and shut his eyes. As the sound of lead scratching against paper assault his ears, along with the occasional satisfied hums and disappointed groans of an obnoxious Schnee, he couldn't help but groan in exasperation.

"Teenagers, always the same, no matter the family," He groaned in exasperation.

Within minutes, he was asleep. He slept through the night.

Whitley, however, did not

* * *

"Okay, I'm gonna need a plasma torch here!"

When Yinsen woke up, he had thought his day would have started like any other. When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to see members of the White Fang marching in and out, lugging cardboard boxes and metal container. Most had already been opened, their contents strewn about the room to be organized later. In the center of it all was Whitley Schnee, who was directing foot traffic, giving out orders to the Faunus as they moved about the room.

He heard the boy shout, "NO! Don't put the torch near the fire Dust. Are you trying to blow us all up!?"

Yinsen looked to his left and saw the offending Fang, who quickly snatched the torch away from the table where several Dust containers laid, all of them labeled "FIRE".

Rising from his cot, the doctor weaved his way through the moving line of Faunus, intent on reaching his patient. Like a leaf in the wind, Yinsen followed the path as it directed him, trying to pass through obstacles with ease. But it wasn't easy, as these Faunus moved without a pattern. After a minute of traversing the intricate moving maze of bodies, the doctor finally reached the young man.

Whitley noticed the old doctor and greeted him warmly, "Morning."

Ignoring the greeting, Yinsen instead asked, "What is this?"

Whitley gave the man a small smirk, "Savin said he'd provide me with materials. Well, he's providing right now."

The sound of a metal container banging against rock was heard. Whitley screamed, "HEY! Careful with that, the stuff in that box is worth more than the clothes on your back!"

He then directed his attention back to Yinsen, "I took him up on his offer and they've been delivering what I need since early this morning."

"So does that mean you already figured out your little equation?"

The boy grinned and confidently said, "That and more."

He then pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Yinsen. The doctor unfurled the sheet, revealing designs for a device that resembled his electromagnet, only it looked far more streamlined and refined. In his opinion, it looked like a pacemaker that had been sketched by an car designer. Words failed to describe how impressed he was by the young man's ingenuity. But he did wonder about one thing.

"Did you get any sleep last night, as I suggested." He asked the teenager.

Whitley quickly said, "Why, yes, of course, I did. I mean, why wouldn't I?"

 _Yeah, he definitely didn't sleep last night._ The Doctor worriedly realized. This might become a problem if left unhandled.

But right now, his main concern was ensuring this boy's continued survival. He then spoke, "Alright, I can see where this is going. What do you need me to do?"

"You're going to help me build this." The boy told him, leaving no room for negotiation. Yinsen was gonna help regardless.

Pushing his glasses up, the doctor asked. "Alright, where do we start first?"

* * *

"It looks like your plan is working, old friend. Well done."

If Savin appreciated the compliment, he didn't let it show. As Vryolak had come to know since he met the man, he had a remarkable poker face. He had come to appreciate the Snake Faunus' coolheaded composure, which had come in handy more times than he could count. Especially now, given their current predicament with the Schnee boy.

Savin coolly replied, "Thank you. But save the praise for when the boy is finished with his task."

"And you're sure that he'll do it, that he can actually build that… thing?" Vryolak asked, having forgotten the term of the device the Schnee was building.

"If he is indeed as intelligent as Mr. X claimed, then he will." Savin said assuredly before asking, "Speaking of whom, have we received any further instructions from him?"

Vryolak groaned, "Not since yesterday. I don't know what exactly he's doing right now, but Mr. X is probably figuring out a better option. When he'll find one, I've not the slightest clue. It could take weeks."

Despite their groups surge in successive operations, they were still far from their true goal, a goal that only Mr. X can help them accomplish. However, their relationship with their mysterious benefactor hinged on how well they can handle the mess they've found themselves in. Of course, it was a mess that could only get worse if Whitley Schnee continued to be uncooperative in the future.

Vryolak was thankful that Savin had a backup plan. If he were being honest with himself, he liked this plan more than the current one.

He wished that they had led with it.

* * *

After the last of the containers were brought in and opened, Whitley immediately went to work.

Sitting at a table, with Yinsen standing close by, Whitley sat disassembling a 3M missile, the very same model responsible for his damaged heart. How ironic it was, the boy thought, that the very instrument behind his doom would be become his salvation. Using a screwdriver, the teenaged genius quickly unscrewed the bolts that kept the nose of the miniature missile connected to the body. As soon as the last screw was taken out, he immediately pulled the half-orbicular piece away from the body. He was glad that the missile hadn't been primed for use, or else removing the cone would have killed him.

 _Then again, the explosion would have been quicker than the shrapnel in my chest._ The young Schnee darkly thought.

Using his right hand, he reached inside the now harmless metallic tube and pulled out its payload. He then tossed the tube aside, no longer needing it. Examining the intricate mechanism before him, he searched for the one piece he needed for his newest invention. Once he found it, he took out a wrench and pulled on it. Within seconds, a piece of machinery that Yinsen couldn't identify is extracted, which Whitley held under the lamp. He then plucked a small and thin strip of metal from the piece, which he showed to the doctor.

He looked to Yinsen and explained, "You see this? That's palladium, .15 grams. We need 1.6 grams for what we're building, so get down to helping with the other eleven."

Yinsen, despite his hesitance, complied with the request. He went to their stockpile of Missiles and pulled out two, handing one to Whitley, while he took the other. Within minutes, they had more palladium. The process continued for an hour until they finally had the amount needed.

"Alright, now we're going to melt these down later, so I can use them for the reactor's core. You'll handle that part. I've got already some molten metal ready for the ring, but I'll need to get the mold ready."

The teenager set about creating the mold, which he made sure would shape the molten metal into a thin ring, one as wide as the palm of his hand. Yinsen found the molten metal inside a tiny clay pot. Using a clamp, Yinsen took the pot and carefully moved over to the boy, who had placed the mold on a table.

"Be careful. You wouldn't want to burn a hole through the table." Whitley warned.

Yinsen chuckled as he began pouring the pot's contents into the mold, "Don't worry, I have steady hands. How do you think you're still alive?"

After the last of the metallic magma had been poured into the mold, they let the metal cool off. An hour passed, enough time for the metal to cool off, which they promptly broke free of the mold. After inspecting the newly-formed ring for any imperfections, which he found none, Whitley took the newly formed metal ring to the table, where he had set up a work station. He was pleased to see that it met the exact measurements he intended for it. He now had the foundation for his new reactor. Now all had to do was construct the actual device, which he knew would take a considerable amount of time.

Using the parts he scavenged from the missiles he had gutted, along with the few scraps he deemed suitable for use, he set about building the components that would comprise the internal structure of the reaction. For the next several hours, he slowly assembled the parts needed. Yinsen spent his time melting the palladium so that it may be poured into another mold that would create the core of the reactor.

Whitley took his time with each component, meticulously looking over each and every mechanism before he connected it to the larger frame. He can't afford to make any mistakes, as the miniature reactor had be assembled exactly to the specifications he outlined in the blueprint. He and he alone was the only person that he can trust to get this right.

As he worked, the teenaged genius failed to notice the passage of time. Seconds became minutes, and then became hours, starting from late midday to late in the evening. Yet, he didn't notice at all. But the passage of time was not the only thing Whitley failed to notice. As he took his time working on the reactor, he didn't see that Yinsen was had been observing him. The Doctor, throughout their endeavor, had been taking notes on the young man's behavior. Suffice to say, he did not like what he had seen thus far. What had he noticed, if one were to ask him?

He had noticed that Whitley Schnee, while building his newest invention, has been displaying some rather troubling habits. The boy has already neglected his sleep, having been awake since yesterday afternoon. He doubted the boy had even taken a break in that same time period. He has also been ignoring food, having eschewed breakfast, lunch, and now dinner in favor of working on the reactor. It seemed that the boy had chosen to focus his mind and body on completing this task, regardless of whatever negative effects it would have on his body.

 _Does he even know what time it is_? Yinsen wondered as he checked his watch. It was getting close to nine.

Yinsen didn't know if the boy was suffering from Post-Trauma Syndrome, but it was clear, even to him, that Whitley Schnee is going through some kind of psychological torment. If hadn't met the young man prior to his surgery, he probably would've thought the teenager to be some kind of overachieving, perfectionist workaholic. But he knew better. Before he had woken up to write those equations, Whitley Schnee was experiencing what was no doubt a very horrific nightmare, one that nearly made the boy cry his heart out and clutch at his heart.

 _It was as though he were trying to scrape the magnet out._ Yinsen worriedly thought, horrified at the notion of the boy tearing out the electromagnet by accident.

He knew that the construction of this device was probably Whitley's way of maintaining a semblance of structure in his recently disrupted life. However, If something weren't done now, then the boy's neglect toward his own health will kill him long before the shrapnel does.

He approached the boy cautiously. Once he was near the boy, He tapped his shoulder. Whitley immediately ceased his work, pushing his welding googles up to his forehead.

The man nearly recoiled at the sight of the boy's eyes. They were tired and had bags, his blue eyes having lost all luster in them. He swore that they were bloodshot as well. This was proof that the boy had been neglecting his sleep.

"What is it?" Whitley asked before yawning.

That just confirms my suspicions. Yinsen thought in concern. He then said to the overtly-tired young genius, "You've been working too long. I'll handle the rest, just go take a break."

"Can't sleep, work's too important. Have to finish this." The boy replied, sounding more exhausted than he meant to express.

"You need rest." Yinsen insisted, taking the welding goggles. Whitley didn't even bother trying to take them back, he felt too tired. He opted to glare at the older man instead.

He irritably growled, "Give those back!"

"No." Yinsen sternly said, "You need sleep."

Whitley rose to his feet, trying to meet the older man's gaze. Unfortunately, he couldn't, for two reasons. Firstly, Yinsen had several good inches on him, so he couldn't argue face-to-face. Secondly, it was because something was building up in his stomach, and he felt as though he couldn't keep it in. Nearly dropping to his knees, he retched and coughed. Suddenly, and much to the boy's embarrassment, he let loose the contents of his stomach onto the cold, rocky floor.

Whitley wheezed and took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. He looked up at Yinsen, who held a very concerned look in his eyes. For some reason, he hated that glance. He didn't understand why, but for some reason, he couldn't stand that pitying glance. For a brief second, he imagined his father standing in the doctor's place, looking down on him as he suffered under the pressure.

For a moment, Whitley saw his father, who sneered at him. "A Schnee doesn't show weakness. So tell my why you're kneeling, vomiting your pride away."

Through vomit-stained lips, the boy gritted his teeth. "I'm not weak."

Yinsen raised a brow at this and asked, "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Wiping his lips with his sleeve and shaking the illusion way, the tired genius irritably replied. "Nothing, I didn't say anything. I don't need sleep, I just need to finish this reactor."

"And you will, but not today." Whitley rolled his eyes at that, retorting, "Yes, today, I will. Now give those back."

Truthfully, Yinsen was reaching the limits of his admittedly great patience with this boy. He was no stranger in dealing with troublesome teenagers; he had close to twenty years of experience on the subject. But this was a special case. Because for some grand universal reason beyond his comprehension, out of all the people he had to help, it just had to be a super-intelligent teenager. A teenager who just happened to have a stubborn streak as wide as and possibly deeper than the Sanma Ocean. It's going to take more than words to have the boy get his much-needed rest.

Yinsen suddenly had an idea. Putting on a challenging smirk, he held the goggles in Whitley's face and said, "Alright, if you're that serious about this, then just take them from me."

Whitley looked at the old man in confusion, which was quickly replaced by satisfaction. The boy stretched his lips into a cocky smirk, satisfied that the old man had finally seen reason. He reached for the goggles, only for the doctor to yank his arm away.

"What are you doing!?" Whitley angrily demanded, levelling a fiercer glare at the old man.

"If you say you have all the energy to work, then taking these goggles from me shouldn't be a problem for you." Yinsen coolly explained, ignoring the teenager's glare.

Whitley huffed and loudly complained, "This is childish and unnecessary!"

"I'm not the one acting like a child."

"Fine, if you insist on acting like this, then I'll oblige you!" Whitley declared, rising from his seat.

The two captives stared the other down. Both stood unflinching, uncompromising in their stance. It was a game of chicken now, neither hostage knowing who would be the first to make a move. The game ended when Whitley made his move, reaching out at the old man's hand in an attempt to take the goggles back. Yinsen simply stepped to his side, away from the angered teenager, who was surprised by the action and nearly tripped. The boy looked at the doctor, who kept an impassive and unimpressed face. That look did nothing but further infuriate the boy.

Whitley swiped his hand at the goggles, but Yinsen simply raised his arm, using the advantage of his height. The goggles now hanging a few inches above him, Whitley jumped up and tried to snatch them from the doctor's grasp, only for the doctor to toss them into his other hand.

Whitley furiously shouted, "Is this a game to you?!"

"No, this isn't a game to me. A game is something one does for fun. I'm doing this to prove a point." Yinsen calmly explained as he held the goggles in the boy's face.

"Prove what!" Whitley demanded to know.

"If you keep on trying to get these things from me, you'll see."

That was all the incentive the young Schnee needed to continue. He was not one to be denied. He was a Schnee. Schnee don't know the meaning of the word "surrender". If they did, then the descendants of Nicholas Schnee would have been nothing more than simple Dust miners, nameless and ignored by the world. But Nicholas never surrendered and neither would his grandson.

What followed for the next several minutes was a test of Whitley's willpower. As he struggled vainly to retrieve his desperately needed goggles, he began to feel his chest tighten and his throat dry and itchy. His skin felt like it was burning, and his sweat glands were running on overtime trying to cool him down. Then his legs started to buckle before they finally gave in, causing the boy to drop to his knees.

 _No, I don't want to sleep! I need to stay awake if I want to live!_ The boy desperately pleaded with his body.

As the boy struggled to keep himself from succumbing to exhaustion, Yinsen set the welding goggles aside on a nearby table.

The doctor walked over to the young genius and knelt, telling him in a concerned voice. "What you're feeling right now, that's what happens when a person stays awake for too long. You have been up far longer than 24 hours and your body was suffering long before that. If you continue on like this, it's gonna get worse and you'll be so unfocused that you can't finish the only thing you're concentrating on."

Whitley was having none of it, as he defiantly spat out. "I. Do not. Need sleep!"

"Yes. You do." Yinsen countered, "Or is it that you can't sleep?"

"I can sleep. I just don't want to." Whitley argued, adding. "And nothing you say is going to convince me otherwise."

Yinsen resisted the urge to groan. It was just as he feared. The boy was definitely a stubborn one. If this were under different circumstances, he would've admired the young man's devil-may-care attitude. In these circumstances, however, stubbornness was a surefire way for the boy to get himself killed. He was not going to let the boy kill himself, not by a long shot. What kind of doctor would he be if he let one of his patients kill himself?

Drastic times call for desperate measures. The Doctor concluded. It was time to use his back-up plan.

"Alright," Yinsen said in a resigned tone, "If you're that confident you can finish this little project with no sleep; Then who am I to stop you."

He then told the boy, "In fact, I may have something that can help."

Yinsen rose up and walked over to a table on the farthest side of the cave. Opening one of the cabinets, he pulled out a small box, which he then opened. He then pulled out a small transparent, bottle filled with an equally transparent substance. The doctor then took a bottle of purified water, which he then poured into a ceramic mug. He then opened the bottle and poured a very minute drop of the doubtlessly medicinal liquid into the mug. After returning the bottle to the cabinet, Yinsen returned to the boy with the mug in his hand.

He held the mug to the still kneeling Whitley and said, "Drink this."

The exhausted Schnee observed the small ceramic object, wondering just what his physician had added into the water. He then than asked the man, "What is it?"

The doctor calmly explained, "Just a rather powerful adrenal supplement. It should keep you awake for a while."

Whitley looked at the mug again, wondering if he should take it. He weighed his options, calculated the risks, and chose the outcome that guaranteed his project's completion. He took the cup and drank it. As the liquid entered his system, he felt something stir within him. Could it be that his body was being rejuvenated?

"Oh, by the way, I lied." Yinsen said which shocked the boy. The man then told him the truth, "What you drank was Fospropofol."

"Which is what exactly?" Whitley deigned to ask.

Without skipping a beat, Yinsen explained, "A fast-acting, water-soluble sedative."

"Oh." Was all Whitley could say before the sedative kicked in.

The Schnee's face met the cavern floor afterward.

Yinsen checked the boy and found that he was unharmed. He then scooped the now-sleeping boy up and carried him over to an empty cot, where he promptly tucked him in. As he watched the boy settle into what would most assuredly be a very long sleep, Yinsen bemoaned the fact that he had to resort to such underhanded tactics.

"Just great, it's bad enough I'm helping terrorists against my will, but now I've committed medical malpractice." He lamented, feeling disgusted with himself.

He then thought about the situation and realized, "Then again, what I did was technically good for his health."

 _He is being held against his will by terrorists who'd sooner shoot him for any perceived slight. Which was possible, given his recent bout of near-insanity._

He looked at the unconscious Whitley, "Oh, he is going to be so pissed when he wakes up."

He then retreated to his own cot, lying down upon the dirty mattress. His last conscious thoughts, before sleep took him, were of his family.

* * *

 _Eight year old Whitley Schnee looked up at his grandmother with teary eyes._

 _It had been a week since Weiss' birthday party and he hadn't spoken to his father, mother, and sisters since. Father had been spending more time at the office than he did at home lately. His mother had taken to locking herself away in their bedroom with a couple of strange bottles. His sisters have gone to stay the week with the family of Kenjiro Fujikawa, one of his late grandfather's advisors and the current head of accounting for the SDC. From what he heard, the man's daughter, Rumiko, was a good friend of Winter. All he had was his grandmother and it took a week before he can actually see her._

 _Sitting on the couch of her living room, Whitley told his grandmother about the disastrous birthday party and the equally terrible aftermath. He told her about his father's words, which the woman found herself outraged at. He told her about his mother's actions, to which she frowned. When it came to his sisters, she expressed equal parts disappointment and sympathy. When her grandson expressed his feelings on the matter, the old woman just nodded in understanding and listened with rapt attention. When he finished telling her about his troubles_

 _"How does it feel?" An elderly woman asked in concern._

 _"It really hurts, grandma," Whimpered the young child. "And I'm mad that I can't even put a Band-Aid over it."_

 _Toni sighed and told him, "Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."_

 _Whitley could only look down in shame. A short silence reigned between grandmother and grandson before the former spoke up, "I'm sorry, Whitley."_

 _"What are you sorry about, Grandma?" Whitley asked as he looked up, only to find his grandmother had disappeared._

 _Eight year old Whitley Schnee now sat alone on the old couch. He looked around, yet can't find his grandmother. He shouted for Jarvis, but his grandmother's butler was nowhere to be seen. He then shouted for Aunt Pepper, Uncle Rhodey, and anybody else who could help him. No one came. His family abandoned him, his grandmother was gone, and nobody else was coming to help him. He was truly and utterly alone._

 _"I'm sorry." He heard a new voice say._

 _The boy turned on his heel, finding himself face-to-face with a person who looked like him, only older. But what scared the boy was not the fact he was looking at himself, but that his older twin had a gaping and bloody hole in his chest, right where his heart should be. Frightened by this older doppelgänger, the little boy backpedaled, trying to put as much distance between him and the stranger._

 _"Go away! You're not real!" The little boy shouted in desperation._

 _"I'm as real as you," The stranger said, "actually, I am you."_

 _"No, you're not me! I have people who love me, who will do anything to keep me safe!"_

 _"Oh, Yeah?" The older Whitley gestured to the hole in his chest, "Well, they've been doing a pretty bang-up job so far."_

 _He then looked at the still-frightened boy and asked, "How long are you going to keep doing this? You know, living as though you believe you have any control over your life? Believing that so long as you follow the rules and somehow prove yourself, daddy dearest will finally swoop in, make all the bad people go away, and give you the throne?"_

 _Older Whitley frowned, "Well, I hate to burst your very small bubble, junior, but daddy isn't coming._

 _Little Whitley ceased his crying and stared at his older counterpart, tears still fresh in his eyes and nose running._

 _"The only person you can rely on, at the moment, is yourself."_

 _Older Whitley pointed to his chest and sternly said, "And you need to fix this."_

* * *

Whitley opened his eyes. Shooting up in his bed, drenched in sweat, the teen genius scanned his surroundings. He noted that he was in his cot, with a very old, worn-out blanket covering his body, which was still clothed in the same outfit he has apparently worn for the past four days.

 _I should really change my clothes._ He realized, taking a sniff of his sleeve. He recoiled at the odor. _Yep, I'm definitely getting new clothes._

He looked over to that Yinsen was asleep on his cot wrapped in a worn blanket that only reached down to his knees, snoring like a bear that had pinecones shoved up its nasal passages. In other words, he was in deep sleep. This meant that Whitley had been sleeping long enough for his roommate to lose all consciousness.

 _Wait, how the hell was I asleep?_ I planned on staying up all night finishing the reactor, how could-

He then recalled his last conscious memory. _Oh, you son of a- A sedative, really? I mean, really? I was completely fine, I didn't need sleep. I needed more time to work!_

He scratched the back of his head. At least I didn't have the same dream as last time.  
Whitley shuddered at having to endure another session of the psychological torture his mind has been subjecting him to. Then he thought, At least the one I just had was better… okay, still depressing, but better all the same.

With that sobering thought, Whitley shoved the blanket off his person, rising out of his cot. The boy then stretched his back, legs, and arms, trying to get all the creaks in his body out of his system. He then picked up the car battery, which had been placed on the end table, and promptly proceeded over to his work station. To his surprise, everything was exactly as he had left it the previous night. He sat down, setting the car battery on his lap, and immediately went back to work.

For the next couple of minutes, Whitley sat quietly at his station, working on the device that was to save his life. As before, he blocked out the world around him, becoming so engrossed in his work that he hadn't notice that Yinsen awoke. The doctor approached the young man and tapped on his shoulder. The boy was not even startled by the action as he calmly placed his tools back on the table. He looked up at Yinsen and glared. The boy's gaze was so sharp and intense it could stab and burn the older man into oblivion. Fortunately for Yinsen, there had never been a documented case of a person being killed by a stare.

"Uh, are you still mad about the sedative?" Yinsen asked, somewhat disappointed in himself.

Whitley just kept his eyes narrowed at the man and coolly replied, "Was that rhetorical? It had to be rhetorical. I mean, why you would ask a question that has such an obvious answer."

"Yeah, really regretted asking that the minute I spoke." Yinsen confessed, finding the boy's tranquil fury to be justified. He deserved it.

Whitley then remarked, "Yeah, not really the first thing you'd ask the guy you tranquilized. Speaking of which, I think that's what people would call a dick move."

"I know, that wasn't one of my proudest moments… if it helps, the sedative was actually plan B."

"What was Plan A?"

"Trying to trick you into taking a nap, all while promising I'd wake you up in an hour."

"You weren't going to wake me up in an hour, were you?" Whitley crossed his arms, "And did you really think I'd have fallen for something so obvious?"

"No, not really, no," Yinsen shrugged, "Besides, it was better than nothing. Would you rather I'd let you stay awake? I mean if I were as you said, a dick, I wouldn't have done anything. I'd have just left you to your devices as you slowly descended into the pit of clinical insanity. Hell, I'd have probably start a betting pool with the guards on how long it would take for your mind to break after drowning in an endless stream of uninterrupted consciousness. I'd imagine that after about four days, you'd be so out of it that you would have convinced yourself that mole-people were engaged in some kind of global conspiracy to undermine you… Well, considering if you hadn't died by then."

"…So I should be thanking you for slipping a drug into my drink?" Whitley sarcastically remarked, none too amused by the insinuation.

"I wouldn't phrase it like that, but yes. Just remember it's not my intention to harm you. I swore an oath to keep my patients safe, especially when a patient starts exhibiting symptoms such as yours."

Whitley's raised an eyebrow and said, "I don't follow."

Yinsen took a deep breath and then exhaled, preparing himself for a lengthy debate. "Mr. Schnee, I'm going to be frank, but you have been demonstrating some traits that one would call distressing. You have been thrashing about in your sleep, you've been hypervigilant, irritable and quiet. When you sleep, you're nearly on the verge of tears, holding in screams of pure agony-"

"I was just having a bad dream. I've had those before." Whitley vehemently denied.

"Oh, and what exactly did you see in this so-called _bad dream_?" Whitley froze at the question.

Yinsen pushed the issue, "Did you see something you didn't like? Something so horrifying that it made you fear sleeping? Why it almost sounds like you were having an unpleasant episode."

Whitley found his voice again, "There's _nothing_ wrong with me. Other than the shrapnel currently eating away at my heart, I'm in tip-top shape."

Yinsen did not buy it for a second, "Oh, really? Can you honestly say that you're in peak mental condition? You, a teenaged boy who had just gone through a traumatic experience, suffering nearly-fatal wounds during said experience and having witnessed what was essentially summary execution, have the fullest confidence to say you haven't been affected in the slightest?"

Whitley again lost his voice, choosing instead to glare at the man. Yinsen took the heated glance in stride, and continued his lecture. "Okay, if you don't believe me, then I hope you can believe the facts. Over the past day and a half, you have shown signs of hypervigilance, depression, emotional detachment, unexplained anger, and the aforementioned case of nascent insomnia compounded by episodes of panic and terror in your sleep. Please tell me, am I wrong or does that sound like post-traumatic stress?"

The Schnee stared at the doctor. He looked at him with a scrutinizing glint in his arctic blue eyes, as though he were trying to detect any sign of the man's intentions. This was not the first time a person has expressed concern and more often than not, they were hollow sentiments used by people trying to gain leverage on the emotionally-scarred son of one of Atlas' most influential men.

His mind clear, Whitley replied with a flippant tone. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He then turned around and sat back down at the table to finish his work on the Arc Reactor. Before he started, he decided to get one final word in, "Also, you knocked me out with a sedative. Without my knowledge or consent. So, Doctor, with all due respect… Piss. Off."

Yinsen heard the message loud and clear. He knew he had messed up. He'll leave the boy to his work. He deserved that at the very least. He turned away and walked away, but not before telling the boy.

"Just make sure to let me know when you're finished. You still need a surgeon to put that reactor in your chest."

* * *

"And you're sure this is the best course of action?"

James Ironwood stared at the man seated across from him. The Head of the Atlas Military is no stranger to cover-ups, having had a hand in several, excluding the one involving his fellow headmasters. When Ozpin chose to suppress information, it was always with the intention of protecting Remnant's people. Yes, he has willingly hid the truth of the world from the people and he knew it was the right thing to do.

But what Jacques Schnee had just suggested, there was nothing right about it. It was the sort of thing he expected of the businessman, yet he always thought that the man had enough compassion not to go through with it. But he guessed he was wrong, for he had heard the man say it himself, clear as day.

Jacques Schnee had asked him to keep the Incident in Anima under wraps. There would be an investigation, but it will be conducted under secrecy and will not be revealed to the public. They will not tell the families of the soldiers who had died in the attack of their relative's deaths. But what topped all of them, the one thing that completely shocked the general, was the billionaire's insistence on covering-up his own son's kidnapping. The boy would be rescued, eventually, but the world will not know of his capture.

Ironwood summed up his feelings on the matter with this statement. "Have you lost your gods damned mind?"

Jacques retorted, "No and If I had, I would've known. This is the best course of action, James. The company's image can't suffer this slight against it."

"This is about the _company's_ image?!" Ironwood incredulously asked, "Jacques, cut the bull, we both know the real reason why you're doing this. Your son has been kidnapped-"

"And you're going to get him back!"

"And he will be, and as I was trying to say, your SON has been kidnapped, probably being tortured, and you're worried that your rivals will use this knowledge as a slight against you. Not against the company, just _you_." Ironwood leaned in and pressed further, "You were meant to go on that trip, but you sent your son instead. He's been captured and you don't want people to think you just sent him to his death. Gods above, Jacques, are you-"

Jacques got in the general's face and shouted, "Don't you dare finish that sentence! I didn't bring you here to assault my character, but to plan an assault on the characters who took my son!"

Jacques bared his teeth and growled, "And why is it taking so long?!"

"Contrary to what you think, Jacques, but there is actual intelligence behind every decision I make with my military. There are protocols that have to be followed, answers that need to be found, like the fact that a classified flight was discovered and attacked! Do you have any idea what that implies, Schnee!" Ironwood gripped his fist in anger and said,

"It implies, no, _proves_ my own worst fear."

"It's proof that there's a damn mole in my military!" He spat in barely contained fury.

Ironwood long suspected that there had been a leak in his military. For the past year, there had been attacks on many Atlas installations, wherein all their security was bypassed and their equipment, dust, and secrets were stolen. While the Council refused to believe that their military would be compromised, Ironwood most certainly can. It wasn't the first time he had to deal with a traitor, and it most certainly won't be the last. But he still had to know who, out of all his personnel, would sell out their brothers and sisters-in-arms.

When he did find them, all he'd have to worry about is how he can make the scum pay for all the blood their treason has cost. Considering the past year, it was a pretty steep debt to pay, and he'll be collecting all of it and with interest.

He took a deep breath and sank further back into his chair. He felt soft cushions of the armchair press into his back. It felt like he being massaged by a cloud. He then said,

"Look, I don't disagree with you for wanting to cover up the attack. Despite what you think, I am fully prepared to do it. If knowledge of it was leaked to the public, then they would've started asking questions, the kind that would make a spy worry about their position. We can't find a spy if they know they're being hunted."

Jacques held back the urge to smirk. He had gotten his way, again.

"As for your son, well, I know that he's alive. The perpetrators wouldn't be so dumb as to murder a hostage as high-profile as him. But it's going to take a while before an actual rescue operation can be mounted. We can't exactly rescue a person if we don't know where they are."

"For now, we wait."

* * *

"All right, the wait is over. We're ready to replace this magnet."

Yinsen looked at the device Whitley had given to him. After several hours of hard work, suffering slight burns and minor cuts, the boy had finally finished his invention. Despite the boy's justified distaste for his prior action, he will still let the man perform surgery on his person. There wasn't much choice in the matter, considering that the man was the only person he knew in this abandoned mine who had proper medical training. After prepping for surgery, Whitley laid down on the brightly-lit surgery table, his bare chest ready to be operated upon. The Car battery lied next to him, still charging the electro-magnet that will soon be replaced.

Dressed in his surgery smock, hands sterilized and wearing latex gloves, the doctor stood ready to begin the operation. His instruments lay on a cart situated next to him.

He looked down at his patient and asked, "Before we begin, I have to tell you that there is a very high-risk that this'll fail. This operation is rushed and given the quality of tools we're working with, I'm not very optimistic about my chances at success. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Whitley nodded vigorously and said, "I'd rather get this done now, rather than later. I'd like to be able to walk without lugging a battery around, thank you very much."

"Okay. First, I'm going to sedate you," Yinsen raised a finger, "with your permission this time."

Whitley was still rather miffed about that. He chose to keep his opinion to himself. The last thing he needed was to anger the man who was literally holding his life in the palm of his hands.

"You're going to be out of it for a few hours." The Doctor explained and then said with a reassuring tone, "But by the time you wake up, you'll be able to walk freely about without a battery wearing you down."

Whitley smirked, assured that his device will work. It had to. He built it after all and he has never built anything that never worked. The shrapnel in his heart was evidence of that craftsmanship, despite the cruel irony of that statement.

"Alright, here we go." Yinsen took an anesthesia oxygen mask and strapped it around Whitley's head. He turned the valve on the anesthesia canister, allowing the anesthetic to funnel through the translucent tunnel leading to the mask. The mask's hose spray the sedative into the boy's nose. Within minutes, he was asleep.

With his patient now under, Yinsen began the operation.

* * *

 _Whitley Schnee found himself within his grandmother's living room again. Looking around, he found no trace of his doppelganger or his younger self. He was all alone. He wanted to say it felt good, but at the same time, it felt lonely. He may have tormented by his sinister double, felt powerless to help his younger self, but they made for better company than the others. As he paced around the room, he noticed that the old television set was coming to life. He stopped in his tracks and looked toward the small screen, waves of static rippling across the screen._

 _Kneeling down, Whitley examined the television, wondering what had caused it to suddenly turn on. Then he looked at the screen and saw, to his curiosity, that an image was beginning to form from out of the static._

 _The teenager watched as the image on screen came into focus, the static clearing away to reveal a sight he was not expecting. On the television, dressed in a black business suit with a sorrowful expression on his face was none other than himself. The Whitley on television was standing behind a podium, addressing what appeared to be a small gathering of people. But then he saw something behind TV-Whitley, something that made his blood turn cold._

 _It was a casket, one that looked to have been carved out of marble. The body in the casket was what truly frightened him. It was his body, dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing for the last few days. Coffin-Whitley also had a very large, gaping hole in his chest. TV-Whitley cleared his throat and spoke._

 _"Today we have gathered to say goodbye to Whitley Schnee. But we are not just laying him to rest, no; we are also laying a dream to rest. The dream that one day, after years of hard work and tearful sacrifice, he would be acknowledged by father as the true heir of the Schnee legacy." TV-Whitley wiped away a stray tear._

 _"But that is not going to happen. Whitley Schnee is dead and he died as he lived…" TV-Whitley paused for dramatic effect._

 _Whitley watched his televised double's frowning face twist into a vicious and malicious smirk. Then he heard his next words, "Alone, pathetic, and forgotten. With that in mind, let us pay our last disrespects to the fondly forgotten. We invited his family to share some words, but they couldn't come. They had better things to do…"_

 _TV-Whitley's smirk stretched wider as he happily said, "But they did tell me what they thought of him. Going in order from completely loathed to frankly uncaring, let's hear what his family had to say. Let's start with Weiss!"_

 _Whitley watched in horror as his double's face morphed into that of his sister's, his short white growing longer and trying itself into side ponytail Weiss often kept her own in._

 _He then spoke in a scarily accurate imitation of her voice, "My brother was an annoying little shit who never bothered to leave me alone. He was a pathetic, sniveling, little weasel who only looked out for himself. He was a disgrace to the family and I'm glad to be rid of him. Now, let's hear what our sister, Winter, had to say about our baby brother!"_

 _Whitley felt as though he were stabbed in the heart by those words. He then watched Weiss's face then morphed into the ever-scrutinizing visage of his older sister. Much like with Weiss, his doppelganger spoke very much like Winter._

 _"Many of you know that I have never cared for my brother. To me, he was nothing more than a frightened, little coward who never learned to stand up for himself. He constantly did whatever everyone else told him to do, no matter how undignified and demeaning the task. To put it in layman's terms: My brother was a bitch."_

 _Whitley felt the invisible knife in his heart twist, further causing him pain. Then his double's face became that of his mother. "You know why I always drink myself into a near-coma all the time? It's so that I can forget what a huge, fucking disappointment my son was. Sure, Jacques may have played a small part, but Whitley, oh, let me tell you, it was Whitley who gave me the drive to get completely blitzed off my ass 24/7. I never wanted him, but unfortunately I couldn't find a coat-hanger in time before it was too late."_

 _It was there that Whitley's fragile heart began to crack under the pressure of the metaphorical knife. Then he saw his father's face, his mustache finely trimmed and his eyes void of emotion. He then heard him talk in the same condescending voice he had heard all his life._

 _"I'm sorry, but for whom is this funeral for? I didn't bother checking, since I only came as a courtesy. Wait, it's for my son, right? Oh, well, I would say that I loved my son and that I'll miss him every day, but I was told that lying at a funeral is disrespectful. He deserves the truth that much I can say, and the truth is that I never actually cared for him. In fact, compared to his sisters, he was more a bronze medal to their gold. Then again, I had far more important things to worry about than the back-up kid, anyway."_

 _Whitley felt his heart break at that remark. Then he felt something pass through his chest, something cold and whistling. He looked down to see that a hole had formed in his chest, right where his heart had been. He hadn't felt it before, or maybe he just chose to ignore it, but he can finally see the truth of it._  
 _He was broken. So broken that he doubted anything can fix him. The boy sat down on the floor and curled up, burying his face into his knees._

 _"Talk about depressing, am I right?" He heard a familiar voice ask, "I mean what's happened to television these days? It's like all they show is depressing crap that just wants to reinforce just how shitty the world is."_

 _He looked back to see that his Grandmother was sitting on the couch, drinking a glass of water. The old woman saw her grandson and waved, "What's up, short round. You're looking a little upset, want to sit down and talk about it?"_

 _Whitley rose and trudged up to the couch and sat beside his grandmother. Through tear-stained eyes, he looked at his grandmother, who gave him a comforting smile. He then asked, "Is this real?"_

 _Toni Stark pursed her lips in deep thought, tapping her chin. Seconds later, she replied. "Depends on what you mean by "real", because honestly I know as much as you do, sonny."_

 _She pointed at the television. "I mean the television is imaginary, but what you saw was most definitely real. I guess they're your subconscious thoughts…"_

 _She took a sip of her water, then remarked. "Man, you must really hate yourself."_

 _"I have no idea what you're talking about. How can I hate myself, I'm smart, witty, and as far as I know, all the ladies want me." Whitley boasted, trying to bolster his ego._

 _Toni just sighed in exasperation, "Okay, first, yes, you're incredibly smart, that is an undeniable fact. Two, compared to me, your wits are as sharp as a plastic knife. Third, I'm pretty sure you swore off woman until you graduated…"_

 _Whitley glowered at that statement. "I mean sure, you can keep pretending that your life isn't totally messed up, but that charade only last for so long, no matter how much effort into it. You know, I'm starting to see why the Doc gave you the sleepy juice; you're as stubborn as a damn mule. I mean, granted it was still a total dick move, but you have to know your limits, you're not Wonder Man, you know."_

 _"So what are you trying to tell me? Is this supposed to be some kind of message, an epiphany, that I should change my ways?" Whitley argued, wondering where his grandmother was going with this._

 _Toni countered that statement, "It's more like an intervention. I'm just here to warn that if you keep thinking that you're the god's gift to the world, it's going to have consequences. Consider what you saw on the TV."_

 _"I'd rather not…"_

 _"Tough toenails, but you're going to. What you heard? Do you really believe that's what your family thinks of you? Well, I mean, that's probably what your father thinks of you, but did you ever think of just talking with your mother and sisters, to try and bury the hatchet?"_

 _"They're too busy-"_

 _"That's not a good excuse. Hell, I think you have no excuses. Are you that childish? Trying to use whatever reason you can find, no matter how small or petty, to avoid your family?"_

 _Whitley had no retort for that. His grandmother continued, "Because if you don't clean up your act, you're going to lose the few people left in your life who do care about you. Not just your sisters and mother, but also Pepper, Happy, Rhodey, and the Stanes."_

 _"What about VIC?" Whitley spoke up._

 _"Do you really want VIC to be the sole presence in your life?"_

 _Whitley thought about it and suddenly got a headache. Even when he wasn't there, VIC was still a pain to deal with._

 _He then said, "Okay, that's a fair point."_

 _"Glad we can agree on one thing. Look, all I'm asking is that you tone down the self-importance. If you don't, then it's going to bite you in the ass and hard." Toni then took one last sip of her glass. "Well, that's the last bit of water. Guess it's time for you to wake up."_

 _"Wait, before I go, I have to ask. Why are you the one who's been helping me here? I mean it could have been Pepper or Happy, but why my deceased grandmother?"_

 _The mental construct of his grandmother shrugged, "It's your mind, kid. How am I supposed to understand how it works? I'm a figment of your imagination, not your psychiatrist."_

 _Whitley began to feel drowsy, as though he were falling sleep. No, he was waking from a dream. He looked at his grandmother, who just waved at him with a smile._

 _She smiled and spoke, "Later, tater."_

 _Then there was darkness._

 _"Welcome to the rest of your life..."_

* * *

Whitley woke up with a gasp, which startled Yinsen.

"Calm down, kid. You're not dying anymore. It worked! It actually WORKED!" The doctor exclaimed jubilantly.

Whitley processed the man's words and promptly looked down at his chest. To his immediate satisfaction, he saw the Arc reactor safely implanted into the circular opening that once housed the electromagnet. The reactor glowed brilliantly in the dimly-lit cave, like a luminescent beacon of blue light. Feeling a wave of satisfaction he hadn't felt in days, the teenager launched himself from the operating table and started bouncing happily in joy.

It worked. He had actually taken his grandmother's unfinished invention, made it smaller, and was able to make it work. It felt amazing as well, it was like the reactor was filling him with energy, and he just had to go and try to use it all up. He felt he like walk ten miles in the desert without getting tired. He can't explain the sudden jolt of renewed vigor he felt in his body.

But he didn't care at the moment to explore it. He had completed the challenge that was set before him and he had finished within three days. With a spring in his step, he approached the iron doors and knocked on them. Within a second, a slit on the door slid open, with his currently assigned guard peering through it.

The guard irritably growled, "What do you want, punk?"

Whitley ignored the man's rudeness and told him with a confident smirk, "Tell the creepy snake-guy that I'm finished with my little science project."

The slit in the door slid back. The guard was doubtlessly walking off to report to his commander. Whitley looked back and saw that Yinsen had ceased celebrating, staring at him with a horrified face.

The doctor then asked, "What did you just do?"

Whitley blinked at the question and asked, "What?"

* * *

"And you're absolutely sure of this?" Savin asked the guard.

The guard nodded, "Yes, sir. The little prick's done building whatever it is he was building."

Savin grinned and relieved the Guard. He turned to Vryolak, who was sitting at his desk, and told him. "It seems Mr. X's words of praise were not unwarranted. Mr. Schnee has successfully found a way to keep himself alive. In less than three days."

"So the little asshole actually can build stuff?" Vryolak cockily grinned, "This is working out better than I hoped."

"Indeed, comrade, indeed. Now that the boy's intelligence has been proven, it's time we present to him our proposal." Savin said with a calm and confident tone.

Vryolak, however, was skeptical and voiced his doubts. "Do you really think the Schnee-Spawn is going to build anything for us? We can't exactly threaten him, not without Mr. X finding out and slaughtering us like pigs."

"That's why we have the back-up plan." Savin turned on his heel. Without looking at Vryolak, he told him. "Tell the guards it's time… tell them it doesn't matter who they choose, so long as it helps prove our point."

Savin then left the small makeshift command center, marching his way to the cave where his newest prisoner was being. By the end of the day, however, he hoped that his newest hostage will be his newest supplier.

* * *

"I don't get why you're so upset. I've just accomplished my, no, THE greatest breakthrough in modern technology."

"That's not what I'm upset about."

For the past several minutes, Whitley and Yinsen had been engaged in a heated argument over the boy's recent action. The boy didn't understand why the doctor was so upset. If anything, he should be honored that he had played a part in the development of the single greatest technological advancement since the development of the rocket. Whitley felt insulted by the man's words. They had created a new source of energy and Yinsen treated it as though it were a bomb waiting to go off.

"Look, do you know what this means for me?" Whitley asked before explaining, "I have accomplished the task those masked freaks gave me, and I did it ahead of schedule. When they see this reactor, they're bound to start making deals that could lead to my eventual release or at the very least keep them from making any moves against me until I'm rescued."

"No, you've just proven that you can build anything. Do you know what that means to them? It means that they've found a new source of weapons; I'm talking guns, rockets, and mines. If it can blow up people, than they're going to ask you to build it."

Whitley scoffed, "As if I'm going to help a bunch of terrorists. What are they going to do, torture me? I'm Whitley Schnee; the last thing they want is to harm their only bargaining chip. No, I'm going to look that Steroid-freak and Snake-creep in the eye and tell them it's my way or the highway."

Yinsen was finally at his wit's end. He narrowed his eyes and said, "Is this a game to you?! Do you really think two terrorists are going to make deals with a kid, even if he's a Schnee? They were able to blow you out of the sky and bring you to a mine, all under Atlas' nose no less. Do you honestly think they're the type of people who'd listen to you?"

Before Whitley could answer the man, the sound of the metal doors opening drew their attention. Accompanied by a few guards, Vryolak and the Snake-Man, whose name Whitley learned was Savin, walked in. Savin approached the young man and ordered, "Show me."

Whitley did as instructed, pulling on his shirt's collar to reveal the reactor in all of its glory. Savin stared at the small device in wonder, completely mesmerized by its glow. The teenager was surprised that the seemingly cold terrorist was even capable of expressing any form of emotion other silent stoicism.

The man looked the boy in the eye and said, "I'm impressed, Mr. Schnee. I gave you an impossible task and you completed it, blowing all expectations out of the water."

"It seems the stories of your Intelligence weren't hearsay. You are, indeed, a once in-a-lifetime genius."

Whitley kept his silence. If this has been in any other circumstance, he would've enjoyed the praise being heaped upon him. But not now, not when the praise was coming from one of the men responsible for nearly killing him. Savin noticed his silence, "I take it you're still upset about the circumstances that brought you here."

The boy genius coolly replied, "That would be an understatement. But I doubt you came here to discuss the past or offer hollow praise. What do you want from me?"

"You disrespectful, little bas-" Vryolak tried to yell, only for his partner to wave him off.

"Now, now, Miklos, there's no need for such hostility. Mr. Schnee, I apologize for my comrade, he has a bit of a mild temper."

Whitley remembered the Fang grunt that Yinsen had operated on. Suffice to say, the Minotaur had something far worse than a mild temper.

"Now, shall we forgo the pleasantries? Because I have a proposal for you," Savin crossed his arms and elaborated, "As my comrade asked before, we would like you to provide services to cause. We want weapons, Mr. Schnee, and you have shown yourself to be a productive worker. Cooperate with us and we will ensure your safety for the foreseeable future."

Whitley thought about it. He came to a decision within seconds. He smiled and said, "No, I won't. In fact, I have a counter-proposal."

Savin cocked an eyebrow in interest, "And what is your proposal?"

"You release me. You know that the Atlesian Army is speeding on its way here to rescue me. They have the numbers, the training, and the most sophisticated weaponry on the planet. Essentially, they're going to rip you a new one and then some. Set me free and I swear I will tell them to leave you alone."

As soon as Whitley said the last word, a silence settled in the cave. Savin stared impassively at the boy, Vryolak was dumbfounded, and the guards just stared at him as though he had grown a second head. Yinsen had simply palmed his face. Then somebody started to snicker. Then another began to laugh. Laughter then erupted from the White Fang save for Savin. Many were going red in the face; some were wheezing uncontrollably, and others were close to dropping to their knees.

"What is so funny!?" Whitley shouted indignantly, angered at being ridiculed by these criminals.

Savin answered for his men, "They're laughing at the fact that you think you have any control over this situation. Did you really think we're stupid as to set a valuable hostage like you free? Hell, I know for a fact that you'd lead the army right to our doorstep. That is, if they were looking for you at all."

Savin snapped his fingers. From the cackling group of terrorist, a single grunt came forward with a scroll. The Snake-faunus took the scroll and swiped his hand across it. He held it out for Whitley to see.

As Whitley examined the tiny screen, he felt his blood run cold. It was an article published on the home page of the Atlas Globe. The headline, much to his horror, was the following.

 _A PRINCE IN ANIMA: Whitley Schnee enjoying time under Animan Sun._

"What the hell is this?" The so-called prince demanded.

"It's a cover-up, Mr. Schnee. It seems your father thought it best to hide your kidnapping from the world. No doubt to protect the company's image, as well as the Atlesian Army's reputation." Savin pointed out, as the last of the laughter died away.

Whitley glared at the Snake man. He wished that could burn the bastard to a crisp with his eyes. Savin leaned in and asked, "Now, let me ask you again. Will you cooperate with us?"

Despite the fact they had rejected his proposal, in spite of the fact that he now knew that nobody was coming to save him, something within the young genius compelled him to resist. He didn't know if it was his conscience or his pride, but Whitley was absolutely certain that he will never agree to help these criminals. These monsters had hurt many of his friends, destroyed countless lives, and have caused more harm to the kingdoms than even the Grimm. Whitley made his choice known in the most appropriate way imaginable.

He spat on Savin's face. He gathered all the saliva and phlegm he could gather in his throat, and spat it on the man's face, directly near his left eye.

Then with all of the hatred and anger he can convey through his voice, Whitley Schnee coldly told the man. "Go fuck yourself, you creepy-ass cocksucker."

Everyone present, from the terrorists to Yinsen, stared in shock at the young man. In the time that the young man had been there, they had not seen him act in such a manner. Even during his initial meeting with Vryolak and Savin, he kept a calm and almost mocking confidence in his behavior. After Savin challenged him to save his own life, the young man became obsessed to the point of nearly losing his mind, yet refrained himself from any malicious behavior. It seemed that the young Schnee's composure had finally broken.

Savin calmly wiped the spit off of his face and sighed, "And here I was hoping we would come to peaceful resolution."

Vryolak asked his old friend, "Time for our back-up plan?"

"Indeed. Bring him in." Vryolak smirked viciously. He was going to enjoy this.

The Minotaur turned to his men and motioned them to step away from the door. Taking the hint, the grunts quickly stepped aside, so as to give more space. That was when they heard the sound of footsteps echo. Whitley heard the noise as well and looked to the entrance. Then he saw them.  
Entering the cave were two guards dragging an unknown person into the cave. This person had a ratty-brown sack over their head and their clothes were worn and somewhat dirty. Whitley noticed that the clothes were actually a uniform, military in design and had once been a pristine white. Whoever this person was, they were a member of the Atlesian Army and he was being held captive much like he was.

Reaching the center of the cave, the guards roughly shove the newly arrived hostage to the floor, who grunts in pain as they hit the rocky floor. Vryolak then walked to their side, grabbing hold of their neck, and removed the sack. Their face now revealed, Whitley saw that they were a man, with curly brown hair and pale-looking skin. The man's face was bruised and bloodied, having a black eye and a cut lip, showing that he was not given the best treatment.

The man then spoke in a raspy and dry voice, "You… bloody… wankers."

Whitley recognized the accent. He knew who this man was. It was Doyle, one of the soldiers assigned to his protection detail. The man had survived the ambush and was being held captive much like he was. Unfortunately for the soldier, the Fang considered him to be more worthless than he was, if his current well-being were any indicator.  
Looking to his right, he saw that Yinsen was as shocked as he was.

The doctor then accused Savin, "You told me there were no other survivors."

Savin shrugged, "I lied."

 _Wait, there are others?_ Whitley wondered, still shocked by this sudden turn of events. He then noticed Savin had started speaking and listened with rapt attention.

"Mr. Schnee," He began before moving over to Vryolak, "We have been very patient with you. We gave you your space, we allowed you access to our resources, and yet you continue to spit in our faces; both figuratively and, most recently, quite literally."

Yinsen moved to intervene, only to be held back by some grunts aiming their rifles at him.

Savin calmly addressed the boy, "We thought you'd be a reasonable and responsible person, given your intelligence. Instead we got an arrogant, childish little boy who thinks himself a man. You have forced our hand, Mr. Schnee."

Whitley did not like where this was going.

"Whitley Schnee, allow me to present a new proposal. We want weapons and you are going to build them. If you refuse," Savin pulled out his pistol and aimed it at Doyle's temple, "I will shoot this man, right here and now."

Whitley just laughed uneasily, as though he were trying to convince himself this was a trick. He nervously asked, "Y-you can't be serious. This is just a joke, right? Some kind of bluff, right?"

Savin cocked the hammer, "You have till the count of three to give us answer."

"One…" Doyle whimpered in fear, tears falling from his one good eye.

"Okay, this is, uh, this isn't funny anymore…" Whitley pleaded, still in denial.

"Two…" Savin's index finger brushed against the trigger.

Whitley began to panic. He watched as Doyle began praying for his life, all while crying his heart out. Vryolak was chuckling at the man's fear, as though it were some hilarious spectacle.

"Thr-"

"STOP, I'LL DO IT! I'LL DO IT, GODS DAMMIT!" Whitley shouted, his voice echoing throughout the network of tunnels.

He may be a Schnee, but even Whitley believed he was not worth dying for. Doyle was unarmed, badly injured, and deserved to live.

Savin looked to the boy and said, "I'm glad that we can come to an understanding, Mr. Schnee."

Savin pulled his pistol away from Doyle's head and returned it to his holster.

He then told the relieved soldier, "You're very lucky, Private Doyle, I won't be killing you today."

Doyle smiled in gratitude. He looked to Whitley and gave him a thankful glance. The teenager was just glad he was able to save this man's life. Still feeling the adrenaline, Whitley closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

 _BANG!_

Whitley's eyes shot open. He looked over and nearly lost his lunch at the sight. As he had promised, Savin did not kill Doyle. Vryolak, however, had made no such promise.

The Minotaur stood proudly like a hunter relishing his victory over his hunt. The man's pistol was at his side, the telltale scent of spent Dust hanging in the air. The corpse that had once been Doyle laid on its side, eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head. Whitley saw that the corpse's head had a small yet shredded opening on his forehead. Vryolak had shot Doyle point-blank in his head.

Whitley stared at the corpse. This young man, who had just moments ago been alive, was now a crumpled-over corpse. He hadn't seen the shot, but he felt the impact of the bullet upon skin, burrowing through skull and brain matter, until coming through the other side, creating a nauseating waterfall of blood pouring into an ever-expanding river.

He didn't even notice Savin was addressing him until he spoke, "Contrary to what you think, Mr. Schnee, you have no control here. Your name may carry weight back home, but here it is practically worthless. The bottom line is that we own your life now. The only way you can pay us back is by providing us with new weapons and equipment. Until such a time as you can be released, you will work for us."

Whitley felt his stomach drop.

"And if you refuse to cooperate again, we will kill another prisoner." Savin pointed to the corpse, "This was a warning. I'm sure you don't want it to happen again."

With that said, The White Fang retreated from the room, dragging Doyle's corpse with them. Whitley continued to stare at the spot where the man had died, a small puddle of blood serving as a marker of the man's death. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pry his eyes away from the blood. The scene played over and over in his head, as though he were reviewing playback footage, searching for a sign that what he had seen was all staged. When he found no evidence to support his theory, he dropped to his knees.  
The words of his grandmother came to mind. If you don't tone down that self-importance, it's going to bite you in the ass.

The Schnee thought he had control of this situation. He thought that he had leverage over these men, that he was invincible. He believed that his name was worth its weight in gold, and that it held some value with these men. He knew they couldn't hurt him, so they decided to kill someone else in his place.

 _I killed him…_

Vryolak may have been the one to pull the trigger, but it was his own stubbornness that had gotten the man killed. This was all on him. So consumed by guilt he was that Whitley didn't even notice Yinsen approach him. The doctor knelt down and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

He then told the boy, "Go sit on your cot, son. I'll clean this up."

Whitley didn't even notice that his legs started moving, as they carried him over to the cot that had served as his bed for the past four days. As Yinsen began cleaning away the blood, Whitley simply sat and thought about the last few minutes. Then it devolved into an examination of the past few days, and then his life. The young man spent hours going over every choice he made in life, trying to ascertain whether he made a significant impact that proved beneficial to anyone other than himself. After a long period of self-reflection, he found to his disappointment that he had spent his whole life doing nothing except trying to elevate himself above others.

 _I've got to be better._

* * *

Hours later, the time came for dinner. Yinsen set about starting a fire to warm up the rice and grill the meat. Whitley said nothing as he watched the cackling fire burn. Yinsen had noticed the young man's silence. "You can't stop thinking about it, can you?"  
Whitley stayed silent, preferring to watch the fire.

Yinsen sighed, "I know it's upsetting, but you have to accept that you couldn't have done anything to save that man's life. They were going to kill him anyway."

The doctor knew what he was saying was cold, but was also the truth. As far as he can tell, young Whitley was still at the moment where that young man was killed. Yinsen saw the fire reflect in the boy's unflinching arctic blue eyes. Yinsen stirred the pot containing the rice, deciding that the young man preferred the silence now. As he stirred the ladle, he heard the boy say in a tone that was barely above a whisper.

"HC/LC…"

Yinsen blinked in surprise, "What?"

Whitley spoke again, using his usual indoor voice. "He liked HC/LC, called me a smartass, and he was fond of Fred Mercury."

Yinsen then asked, "Did he have family, girlfriend or boyfriend?"

"I don't know. If he did, then they weren't going to know he's dead, if that article Savin showed me was true."

"You mean on the scroll? What did it say?"

"Apparently, I'm enjoying a nice, relaxing vacation here in Anima." Whitley said in disgust. "That is just, oh, that is just classic dad right there!"

Yinsen stopped stirring the pot and clasped his hand together. "I take it your father has done similar things in the past?"

"You have no damn idea. Whenever something bad happens, my dad just sweeps it under the rug. Winter joining the military he just paints as her abandoning the family. Weiss wanting to go to Beacon, he just tells the press that she's going through a rebellious phase. The only thing he hasn't tried to hide is my mother's damn alcoholism! But this…"

Whitley chuckled maliciously, "Oh-ho-ho, this latest stunt just takes the cake! Oh, I am definitely in Anima, but I am the farthest thing from relaxed and I most definitely am NOT having a gods-damned NICE VACATION!"

The boy was getting angry, far angrier than he had ever seen before, Yinsen noted. To his own credit, the doctor was virtually unfazed by the sudden shift in the boy's demeanor. It seemed that Whitley had issues long before he had shrapnel embedded into his chest. He didn't know if it was his recent experience or the crash, but it appeared that the wall the young Schnee built around his problems was going to collapse.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The doctor asked, offering the only form of therapy he can provide.

"Where do I even begin?" Whitley began, slouching his shoulders, "Because I have about sixteen years' worth of issues, all of which are pretty minor compared to how fucked up the last couple of days have been for me."

Yinsen asked, "Why don't we start with your family?"

"Where do I start? My mother is an unrepentant drunkard who spends more time with a bottle than she does her own children. My oldest sister, Winter, is an unapologetic perfectionist who constantly looks down on anyone who doesn't meet her impossible standards. Weiss, the vaunted heiress, is an arrogant, conceited, prissy, and spoiled fool who feels that everything should be handed to her just because she can swing a stupid sword around!"

Yinsen immediately wished he hadn't opened that can of worms. He decided to change subjects, "And what about your father?"

Whitley ceased his rant and became solemn. "My father is a great man. Under his leadership, the SDC has reached heights greater than what my grandfather imagined. The Schnee family practically has a monopoly on Dust now, and it is all thanks to the genius of my father!"

Yinsen could hear Whitley was bragging, but it felt hollow, as though he were an actor reciting a rehearsed line he had said many times before. The doctor was not convinced and asked, "Whitley, speak honestly. What do you think of your father?"

"Exactly as I said, my father is a great man…" Then Whitley breathed deeply, as though he were preparing for a challenging task.

He then exhaled and said, "But, that doesn't exactly mean he's a good man."

Yinsen was surprised. He didn't think Whitley, of all Jacques Schnee's children, would have problems with his father. He had heard rumors of the Schnee's less-than-stellar home life, but it was often found in gossip columns and tabloid mags. But that did not mean he had a high opinion of the man himself, considering that he had spent many years treating miners who have been injured in accidents. More often than not, they worked in the mines that barely met current safety standards, which the SDC had a reputation for ignoring.

"Tell me more about your father." He asked.

Whitley suddenly got very worked up, "What's there to tell? It's pretty obvious from that bogus headline how he feels about his own son. My father is a cold, domineering man. He's never told me that he loves me, not even that he likes me. As far as I know, I'm just another tool for him to help spread his influence."

"That's actually kind of sad. Don't you have anyone in your family you can rely on?"

"No, I have no one." Whitley sadly admitted. As far as he was concerned, his whole family hated him. As for Happy, Pepper, and Rhodey, It was only a matter of time before he did something that makes them leave.

"So you are the boy who has everything… and nothing." Yinsen said.

The boy didn't even bother answering the question. His silence was good enough an answer.

* * *

 **I wish to apologize for the quality of this chapter, if it felt somewhat rushed, then it is. I was quite in a hurry to get a chapter published, especially since I haven't uploaded one since March. April was hectic, what with me finishing finals and classes, all of which I passed. I am now taking summer classes (yes, by my own choice) so that I may be able to graduate in the fall. I am also looking for stable employment.**

 **Anyway, let's get on to answering some questions posted in the reviews.**

 **-This story is not posted in the Avengers section because this is purely an Iron Man/RWBY story. Whitley's adventures are going to be at the forefront, with any other heroes either being in the background or being mentioned. Come volume four, there will be more heroes involved.**

 **-The Avengers are definitely going to form. That is all.**

 **-Nobody has made a reaction fic because nobody has asked thus far. I mean, there was one person who did and I gave them permission, but their story is not exclusively dedicated to this one.**

 **Now for the following statement:**

 **Don't hate on Weiss, Winter, and Willow. Thus far, we have only seen them as they are viewed by Whitley. Miscommunication is one of the factors that led to their family's problems. Except Jacques, he's just a prick.**

 **Next chapter will see Whitley finally begin his first true step toward becoming Iron Man. The following chapter will be a two month time-skip, in which Whitley escapes. Expect Character growth and tragedy.**

 **Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, even if I think it's the weakest one I've written. I mean it's not bad, but it could be better.**


	5. Go On and Save Yourself!

**Legal Disclaimer: The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter 5: Go On and Save Yourself!**

* * *

In one of the many hallways in Schnee Manor, Klein Sieben approached the quarters of his employer, Willow Schnee. He held a silver serving tray, which held the woman's typical breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a four-year-old bottle of wine. Of all the food items upon the platter, it was the alcohol that the butler had problems with serving to his mistress. He felt that he was just enabling the woman's addiction. No, scratch that, he was being paid to be an enabler. Sometimes, he just disgusted himself. If only something can be done for the Schnee matriarch to end her self-destructive habits.

Klein then entered the woman's bedroom. He found her lying in her bed, hair splayed over her pillow and an arm extended toward the nightstand. Upon the small end table was a bottle of Whiskey, as he expected. Setting the tray upon an old desk, the butler approached the window to pull back the curtains. The full blast of the sun bombarded the room, bringing light into an otherwise dark room. Willow Schnee did not appreciate it in the slightest.

Feeling the full effects of a hangover, the woman rubbed her eyes and tiredly complained, "Damn it, Klein, can't you just let me sleep my hangover off in peace?"

While picking up the tray, Klein patiently replied, "I'm afraid that's not in the schedule today, Mistress Willow."

He walked over to the bed and stood by the woman's side, placing the tray upon the bed. As was expected of him, he announced to the woman. "Your breakfast is served, Madame."

Having accepted that she'll have to work through the hangover, the woman reluctantly sat up to eat her breakfast. She noticed the wine bottle and snorted, "And here I thought you would surprise me. Couldn't find a 1988 vintage?"

"I'm afraid the cellar has run out of that particular year." Klein told her. It wasn't a lie because Mrs. Schnee had already drunk half of the wine cellar out.

Accepting the answer, Willow nodded and yawned. She winced slightly as the pain in her head flared. She really hated hangovers. She took a knife and a fork to cut into the egg, all while asking, "What's the news for today?"

Klein listed off what news he had heard. "Well, firstly, the Rand Corporation has agreed to sell most of their assets in Solitas to us rather than Oscorp. There's been a bank robbery in Mantle, reportedly robbed by a man who can shoot ice from his wrists. The labor strike at one of our Vacuoan mines has entered its third week, no negotiations have-"

"I meant has there been any word on Whitley?" She asked forcefully, not even looking up from her plate.

Klein blinked, wondering if he needed to have his hearing checked, because he swore that he had just heard Willow Schnee actually ask about her children. Specifically, she had asked about the child who had gone missing. Klein wasn't blind to how dysfunctional the Schnee family has become, in fact, he thought that Willow didn't care enough about her children to ask about their well-being. She hadn't done so since Weiss' tenth birthday party. She often only showed up to her children's events as merely a pretense to maintain the illusion of a united family. She had stopped altogether after her own mother had died, further driving the wedge between her and her children.

 _Could this be the moment when she cleans her act?_ Klein hoped, honestly thinking that this could be the moment the family started healing.

He nursed his features, "I'm afraid that no clues regarding Master Whitley's disappearance have been found yet."

"I see..."Willow softly said. Her face didn't change, maintaining a placid expression as she continued eating.

She then calmly told Klein to leave the room, to give her some peace and quiet as she ate. While disappointed in the woman, the servant did as he was ordered, leaving the bedroom without a word. As soon as the doors closed, the woman dropped her fork and knife onto her finished plate.

Her eyes drifted over to the wine. It may not be her preferred year, but she'll take what she'll get. She opened the bottle and poured some of its contents into a glass shot.

She stirred the drink, just as she preferred it. She watched the liquid for a moment, staring at it hungrily.

 _J_ _ust one sip, just one to make the pain go away..._

She slowly brought the glass to her lips, but just as it made contact, she tossed it aside. One sip would take the pain away, but also the thoughts of her son. Was she really going drink herself into a stupor as her baby boy suffered?

No, she wasn't.

She took the wine bottle and hurled it against the wall. The bottle shattered upon impact, glass fragments flying out and leaving an alcoholic stain on the previously clean wall.

The poor woman brought her hands to her face, covering her falling tears. She slowly settled into a fetal position, cradling herself as she wept. She just wanted her baby boy back, safe and unharmed. She had already lost so much; her father, her mother, and both of her brothers. She did not want to lose her children like she had them.

She wasn't sure if she could take any more losses.

* * *

It took close to two weeks. After two agonizing weeks of pushing paperwork through every level of bureaucracy in the Atlas Armed Forces, after using every legislative loophole he can use and testing the absolute limits of his authority, General James Ironwood was now heading his own special investigation into the incident leading to Whitley Schnee's disappearance. After consulting with the Argus Commander, albeit much to his chagrin, the general now had a team to aid him with his search for the truth. After taking his team to the approximate location where the escort flight last transmitted, Ironwood began the proper investigation.

After two days of searching, the investigation finally located a considerably large debris field. Strewn across the small patch of desert, half-buried under sand, were the decomposing bodies of his soldiers and the burnt wreckage of an obsolete bullhead. Ironwood can do nothing but watch in restrained fury as the bodies of these brave men and women were retrieved, unceremoniously wrapped in body bags, and placed in a neatly-organized row. Their bodies will be sent back to Argus, where they will then be transported to Atlas for identification.

 _Not that their families will even know._ Ironwood morosely thought, still angered by Jacque's decision to cover up the incident;

especially given the fact that the only survivor, as far as he hoped, was the man's own son.

Ironwood was not quite familiar with the youngest Schnee, only knowing him through stories told by the boy's oldest sister and his protégé, Winter. He was also aware of the boy's admittedly impressive intelligence, having read of his status as the head of his class at ATI in the Atlas Globe. Since such genius was rare to find these days, finding the young man was top priority for the general.

Unfortunately, despite finding this crash site, they couldn't find any other evidence that would lead them to any kidnappers. Whatever evidence they could find were with the other destroyed bullheads, which they have yet to discover. Ironwood doubted that there was any more wreckage to be recovered.

"General?" The voice of one of his soldiers shook him from his thoughts. "The forensics team has found something you might want to see."

He followed the soldier to the entrance of an insulated, sterile, and temperature-controlled tent. Knowing the proper protocol, Ironwood retrieved a hazmat suit so as to keep himself from contaminating the sterile environment, as well as to protect him from any possible biological or chemical agents still present in the portable lab. After donning the suit, the general is granted access to the mobile forensics lab. The first thing he saw was a team of similarly-clothed experts conducting an autopsy upon one of the bodies.

The general stared at the naked corpse upon the operating table with equal parts sadness and outrage. It had been a kid no older than his first year students, a fresh-out-of-basic private who probably had a promising career ahead of him, only for his life to be cut short by the cruel and indifferent hand of death. Ironwood has seen death more times than he cared to admit and he thought he had gotten used to it, but the truth was he hasn't. The younger they were, the harder their deaths hit him.

He was going to make the bastards responsible pay for this. Their capture of Whitley Schnee, he'll have them pay back with interest in the deepest, darkest cell of Atlas' most secure prison.

"General Ironwood, sir!" The lead forensic scientist said in alarm, saluting the man. His colleagues follow suit, ceasing their work to give their general a crisp, respectful salute.  
Ironwood reciprocated their salutes, telling them, "As you were."

The team immediately heeded his word, returning to their work. The lead scientist approached the General. "Sir, we've discovered something about the corpse, peculiar wounds that've been found on the other bodies."

The man pointed to the corpse's face, which resembled burnt steak that had been shredded by a cheese grater. "In our initial examination, we found metal fragments lodged into the man's flesh, muscle, and even the skull. We had thought it was shrapnel from an enemy projectile, until we found this."

The man reached over to a nearby cart, upon which laid a tray filled with medical tools and petri dishes. He picked up a dish, which contained a miniscule piece of metal, barely bigger than his thumb. He held it up to the general's protected face.

The general squint his eyes, trying to get a better look at the small foreign object. To his surprise, it resembled a switch, one he had seen many times before on a certain tool often used by him and other soldiers.

He asked the lead scientist, "Is this a safety switch off of a rifle?"

"Yes, sir," The expert confirmed, only to give him alarming news. "And we found it lodged in his lower jaw. We've also found remnants of the firing mechanism, the trigger, and even some unexploded rounds throughout his upper body. It was like the man's weapon had exploded right in his hands."

The general furrowed his brows in deep thought. Could it have been a malfunction? No, our rifles rarely suffer any type of problems, and they're usually just magazine jams.

 _Actually, now that I think about it, the only time I've seen a gun explode was during the test..._

The general froze, realizing where he had seen such an incident happen. He urgently asked the scientist, "Did you find any intact weapons out there?"

"Actually, no, we haven't. Nearly every corpse that we've found had similar wounds in different sections of their bodies. They were also missing their weapons; some of the corpses have lost their hands, as well. We are planning to examine each body, to see if we can determine the type of explosive used-"

"The M3 missile..." The general said, interrupting the man's report.

The scientist blinked and asked what the general had meant.

Ironwood then explained with a very strained voice. "The M3 missile is a recently developed weapon system, one built with a revolutionary IFF system that uses newly-created sonic identification software. The M3 is essentially a highly-advanced cluster projectile, one that carries miniature homing missiles that target firearms."

"Does our military even have this kind of tech available in the field?" The scientist asked, wondering what the general was implying.

The general ground out, "Not for another six months."

The Atlas Headmaster clenched his fists in restrained anger; nearly tearing through the sterilized, rubber gloves he wore. Killing his soldiers was one thing. But to kill his soldiers using stolen weapons, weapons his military had developed? That was another thing entirely. But to do all of that, while kidnapping the brother of a woman he considered like a daughter? All pretenses of civility are thrown out the window and into a wood chipper.

Whoever did this, he will look for them, he will find them, and he will kill them. But not before he makes sure that they suffer the slowest, most agonizingly painful death he can allow without breaking the Ginevra Accords. Before the bastards died, James Ironwood was personally going to give them a preview of what awaited them in hell.

Suddenly, a voice was heard over the tent's radio. _[General, we have bullheads on approach. They've been identified as being from the Mistral Special Intelligence Service.]_

Ironwood approached the radio, grabbed the mic and spoke into it. "Copy that, I'll be out to greet our guests."

As Ironwood ended the communication, he couldn't help but wonder why the MSIS would send a team. The Atlesian military only cooperated with another kingdom's military when an incident that affected them both occurred. As Mistral was a longtime ally of Atlas and considering that the incident had occurred in Anima, it made sense for Mistral to send a team to aid in the investigation. Though it was more likely the MSIS sent a team to conclude whether there were any leaks in their own military, the general cynically thought, considering that military flight paths and schedules were decided on joint decisions between their militaries. It was also customary to have the nature of these flights be shared between the militaries.

The general left the tent, to meet with the leader of this newly-arrived team. Discarding the hazmat suit, Ironwood returned to the scorching outdoors to await the incoming bullheads. Within minutes, he spotted them coming over the distance, steadily growing dots on a blue horizon. Within seconds, they reached the camp.

Ironwood covered his eyes as the first bullhead began its landing procedure, kicking up sand as it descended. Much like the others from its squadrons was indeed from the MSIS. The body of the aircraft was a light blue, darker than the sky but lighter than the sea, and emblazoned upon the sliding panel doors was the emblem of the Mistralian intelligence agency, a lantern emblazoned upon a round shield. The craft touched down without issue, the landing gears not even swallowed by the desert sand.

The General stood tall, back straightened and eyes unflinching, trying to look as respectful toward the visiting agents. The Bullhead's panel door slid back, revealing a small team of highly-trained agents ready for the investigation. They were dressed in tan clothing, camouflage for their current environment, and carried with them crates containing doubtlessly sensitive equipment. The agents poured out in pairs of two, each pair carrying a crate. As the last of the agents exited the craft, another figure made itself known, having sat in the very back of the small but spacious craft.

Ironwood scowled as he took in the new figures appearance. Unlike the agents, this person, who was undoubtedly male, was dressed in a crisp black suit. The man had a tanned complexion, with thick-rimmed black glasses over a stern face, and was very bald. Ironwood had met this man a few times in the past, but only during official gatherings. Never had he met the man during an actual operation. Especially since the man was not an MSIS agent.

"Sitwell." Ironwood greeted the man, albeit with a look that was equal parts suspicion and displeasure. Why that _man_ had sent this toady was beyond him.

Jasper Sitwell regarded the man with an equally levelled gaze, "General Ironwood."

"What are you doing here?" The general asked, keeping his posture straight. He will dignify this man's presence with crossed arms, or any form of indignant movement.

He won't even give him a salute. He will never give people like Sitwell a salute.

"I am simply a consultant with MSIS." Sitwell calmly explained, flashing his MSIS badge.

Ironwood knew the badge was real, but that Sitwell's allegiance to the Mistralian Agency was bogus.

"If you're here because he sent you, tell him that nothing out of the ordinary happened here." Ironwood adamantly stated, wanting this man to leave as soon as possible.

"Oh, a classified Atlesian military flight being attacked is ordinary for you?" Sitwell asked with an inquisitive eyebrow. Ironwood felt his anger rise.

"You know what I meant. What happened here was the result of an intelligence leak and some crafty terrorists. Not the work of the bogeyman, aliens, werewolves, or whatever it is he's chasing these days." Ironwood forcefully explained, telling the man exactly what had happened here.

The last thing he needed was for that _man_ , of all people, to get involved.

Ironwood knew more secrets than he cared to admit, most he learned from a certain headmaster and some he learned from experiencing life. He had even played a hand in most of those secrets, such as the recent attack upon one of the maidens. Doing so was necessary to maintain the fragile peace Remnant was enjoying. The last thing he needed was for a man who had more secrets than he did to get involved, especially one who didn't trust Ozpin as he does.

Ironwood then ordered the man with a brusque tone, "So, unless you have anything substantial to add to this investigation, I suggest you pack up, return to your boss, and tell him Atlas has everything under control."

"Actually, general, I do have something substantial to contribute to your investigation." Sitwell informed the general, before reaching his within his suit jacket. A moment later, the man pulled out a sealed envelope. He held the paper out to the general, who took with some hesitance.

The general immediately tore the envelope open, revealing the document inside. It was a joint message from the Mistral and Atlas High Councils. As he read the contents of the message, the general's indignant attitude quickly turned outrage. Gripping the paper so tightly that he nearly crumpled it, the now livid general asked with a shaky tone, "What is the meaning of this!"

"It is exactly as it says on the tin, general. Effective immediately, this investigation is now under the jurisdiction of the Mistral Special Intelligence Service. Any and all evidence discovered by your team is to be handed over to mine. Your cooperation is mandatory by order of the Atlas and Mistral Councils." Sitwell calmly explained, choosing to ignore the general's reddening face.

Taking a deep breath, Ironwood calmed himself. Once his anger had dissipated, he calmly folded the letter up and stowed it within his suit's breast pocket. He then gave Sitwell a crisp salute and said, "I hereby hand over this investigation to you, Agent Sitwell. I will have all reports, evidence, and other essential items of note delivered to your team. I will have my team return to Argus within the hour."

"Thank you, General. You can rest well knowing the investigation is now in our capable hands." Sitwell replied, hoping the general will take the hint. The Agent returned the salute, but only as a courtesy.

The general turned on his heel, not even sparing the agent a glance. He got the message the loud and clear. Sitwell watched the general leave with an unimpressed expression, the crisply-dressed man not at all fazed by the military man's disregard for his presence. He had a job to do and he intended to finish it. The general was right in that this ambush was indeed the work of extremists, undoubtedly the White Fang or some offshoot of the group, but he was wrong in one aspect. There was more to this attack than meets the eye.

A reliable source of his in the world of black market arms dealing had discovered that a certain organization had made a sale to an undisclosed group, the products sold being both the yet-to-be deployed M3 missile from the SDC and radar-resistant homing rockets developed by Hammer Industries. There had also been talk that jamming software had been included in the sale, as well as two unknown devices whose purposes had not been determined.

He'll let Ironwood have his little investigation, let him come to whatever conclusion's he'll come to. But his boss had made it clear that no information known by the agency must be shared with Ironwood, or anyone even associated with Headmaster Ozpin. The last thing that the boss wanted was to have Ozpin involved in this.

Sitwell straightened his suit, pushed his glasses up, and walked off to join the team he had been attached to. There were answers to be found.

* * *

In the two weeks since he came to this musky, damp cave, Whitley Schnee has learned a lot of things about himself.

He learned that he hates the smell of blood, especially when the odor is mixed with feces or vomit. He also hated the sight of it, especially if it had recently been inside a person. He hated the desert, for the days were hotter than hot and the nights colder than cold. He hated not having warm showers, clean clothes, and a bathroom.

All he had in this cave was an old metal washtub filled with lukewarm water, dirty second-hand clothes, and a bucket that served as his bathroom.

He _especially_ hated that damn bucket.

He also learned that he had quite the potty mouth. He imagined that his grandmother would be proud of that fact.

His father, on the other hand, would have been outraged.

But, most of all, the most substantial thing he has learned about himself was that in the grand scheme of things, no matter what accomplishments or accolades he had won in his short sixteen years, his life was barely a blip. His family name has been set upon a pedestal for so long, that he just assumed the world would stop for him. Now here he was, sitting in a cave, far from home with a device in his chest keeping shrapnel from shredding his heart to pieces, and the world just kept turning on and on, paying him no mind.

And it took him close to sixteen years to learn this? Despite everything that has happened in his life, it took getting hit by his own bomb to make him realize that he wasn't the center of the universe. He hated himself for that.

Two thin eyebrows furrowed in frustration at that thought. Whitley thought now wasn't the time to wallow in self-pity, but for him to stay focused on his latest project. He had recently been ordered by his "hosts" to build mines, ones intended for use against Grimm, bandits, and soldiers from the Atlesian and Mistralian military. He hadn't been told by his captors where these mines were going to be placed, stating that giving him such information was a security risk. It wasn't like he was going to ask them anyway. If he had, they would've construed it as an act of resistance. He knew full well what would happen if they thought he was resisting again.

 _... Eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head..._

The memory of Doyle's death was still fresh in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't forget the sight of the man's prone corpse, blood pooling from his forehead onto the cold cavern floor. He didn't get much sleep that night or the night after. It'd be fair to say that he's rarely had a peaceful night's rest since that day.  
The fact that the man's blood had left a stain didn't help ease the boy's conscience. It was as if the universe just wanted him to relive that single horrific moment, the moment when his arrogance had cost a man's life.

 _… Eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head..._

Whitley lost all control of his breathing. His thoughts were racing, whispering into his mind dark images of pain, death, and suffering, all while telling him there was a solution to it all. He'd rather not think about what that solution entailed. His pulse was skyrocketing, as though his body wanted nothing more than to rebel against him. He'd rather be in control. Putting down his tools, he clasped his shaking hands together, as he had often did for the past two weeks. Within his mind, he repeated the same phrase that had become his mantra.

 _Breathe... Just breathe. Count to ten. Remember the words that Yinsen told you._

"Each day is a new day. Every day, I am getting better..." He whispered, trying to convince himself that was the case.

With each utterance of his new mantra, he felt his body calm itself. His dark thoughts slowly retreated into the deep recesses of his mind. He felt control of his own body returning to him. His breathing once again returned to a pace that was healthy for him. Whitley Schnee had composed himself in under a few minutes.

"I am getting better..." He sighed and then groused, "What a load of bullshit."

"You are getting better, Mr. Schnee, but it's a slow process." He heard the doctor say from behind him.

If this had been two weeks ago, Whitley would have disregarded the man's words with some type of witty retort. However, Yinsen had saved his life and he felt that the man deserved some respect. But, that also didn't mean he deserved all of it, especially after the stunt with the sedative. The boy was still very miffed about that. He can understand the necessity of the action, given his brief bout sleep-deprived anxiety, but he still should have been asked for his permission. But that was all in the past. What use was there in crying over spilt milk?

"Speaking of which, tell me, how are you feeling today?" Yinsen asked in concern.

"Well, about as well as one can expect from a guy who's being held against his will in a cave, surrounded by armed extremists and has metal shards in his chest. So, in short, not that well." Whitley looked to the mines, "And the fact I'm being forced to build weapons for said extremists isn't helping."

Whitley took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. His hair felt longer, but to what length he had no idea. His captors had neglected to supply him with a mirror. All they had given him, in terms of preserving his own personal hygiene, was a toothbrush and toothpaste. He knew there was some kind of joke in there somewhere, one that the Faunus extremists thought hilarious. Still, one shouldn't complain if they can at least have nice teeth in such circumstances.

But he still had one problem that toothpaste can't solve. "How am I going to do this? They demanded fifty, but I can only build twelve. I'm just one boy, not an assembly line!"

"I don't think they care." Yinsen said. The man sighed and opined, "In fact, I'd say they're expecting that. You can't meet that quota, they'll just write it off as another act of defiance."

And then they'll kill another prisoner. Whitley darkly thought.

He knew that the White Fang- or whatever they called themselves- will look for any excuse to execute the other prisoners. He didn't know how many they had, but he did know that terrorists rarely kept prisoners alive long-term. Excepting, of course, prisoners who were high-value targets, people like him. It was a harsh assessment, some would call it callous, but the fact was that his captors valued his life more than those soldiers.

The boy frowned, hating himself for even having such a thought.

 _A couple of soldiers die and nobody bats an eye. Some rich kid disappears and everybody loses their minds._

He can't help but wonder. _Why is this world so cruel?_

"Hey, are you alright? You're kind of spacing out there." Yinsen asked in concern.

Whitley just waved the old man's question off, telling him that he was fine. At least, that was what he wanted to doctor to believe.

Suddenly, the doors open. Two guards, a man and a woman, enter and approach the Schnee. The boy recognized the man as being a Goat Faunus, if his spiraling horns were any indicator. The woman had spotted feline ears atop her head. Whitley surmised that she was a Cheetah Faunus.

"We need you outside. We're having issues with some ordinance. You're going to fix it." Goat told him. The man then leaned menacingly and asked, "Will that be a problem?"

Whitley just shook his head.

Satisfied, Goat straightened himself and motioned for Cheetah to pull a sack over his head. She complied and once she had done so, helped her comrade drag the boy through the tunnels. The Schnee could do nothing but hope that this won't take long. He still had a deadline to meet.

* * *

After handing him a satchel of tools, Whitley's guards relinquished their hold on him. They then told him of the task he was needed for, telling him where he was to go and what he needed to. He then exited the cave and was immediately blasted by a blinding light. It took him seconds to adjust his eyes, and one he could see clearly, he was shocked to see that he was once again out in the open world again.

It was a strange feeling, he noted, to be outside after so long. It felt nice to feel the warmth of the sun upon his skin again. It was warmer than he thought, considering it was a typical Animan summer afternoon, meaning high temperatures. If only he weren't stuck in the desert. Looking in the direction of his assigned destination, the captive made his way toward a small outcrop, which was connected to a larger, rockier mound. Atop this miniature mountain, he could make out a strange device, which somewhat resembled a metallic umbrella, planted at the top of the boulder pile. As he walked, he took in the surrounding area.

Yes, true to what Yinsen had told him, his prison was located in the Atreides Desert, which spanned nearly the entirety of the continents southeastern coast. Where specifically he was being held, he had no idea. From what he could see, the mine that his captors had appropriated as their base was located in a small enclosed rocky area, with cliffs that provided natural protection from attackers. He saw various tents set up within the area, many covered in desert camouflage, with various fangs moving in and out from each tent, carrying supplies, weapons, and food. To his shock, he saw that a few elevated platforms have been constructed throughout the camp, which had the latest model of Atlesian Bullheads parked upon them. Each vehicle was painted a dull brown.

But what really caught his eye was the strange device in the center of the camp. It was a metallic cube, somewhat resembling a futuristic, shining metal box with strange lights running up its sides. Atop the box was a glass dome, which appeared to be covering a strange mechanism. He swore that he could make out a projector inside the dome as well. Just what was he looking at?

"Hey, stop lollygagging and pick up the pace, you rich, little shit!" He heard one of his guards, the Goat-Man, shout angrily. The Faunus then threatened loudly, "Or do you want us to keep you out here to bake under the sun? Gods know you definitely need a tan!"

The Guard laughed raucously, with his female comrade joining in the mirth with a snorting giggle. As he quickened his pace, he thought about Goat's words. He can only imagine how pale he looked compared two weeks ago. As a Schnee, he had naturally pale skin, a tone that many people have referred to as being almost doll-like. He never once liked that comparison. It made him sound fragile. Without two weeks of natural sunlight, he probably resembled a porcelain doll now more than ever.

The Schnee hair forced that thought back into his mind, wanting to focus on the task his captors had assigned him. Fastening his belt around the toolbox's handle, he slung the container over his shoulder, giving him the ability to use both of his arms to traverse the ascending pile of rocks. It was exhausting, climbing those rocks to reach the top. His muscles felt tired and his lungs like they were working overtime. He wiped some sweat from his brow. A futile act, as his forehead was covered with a thin sheet of perspiration.

Never in his life did the young man ever think he'd envy his sister's athletic prowess. He looked down at his hands and saw that they had a few shallow cuts, but nothing too life-threatening.

His guards had deigned to give him any gloves for protection.

But he can still use his hands, considering they were his most vital tools for the task set before him.

Standing on the hill, Whitley saw a strange device. It had a long, slick and metallic pole that dug deeply into the rocky terrain. Atop this pole, resembling some sort of high-tech metal saucer, was what he can only surmise was some kind of transmitter. Underneath this saucer was a console, shaped like a black box with a blinking red light. One didn't need to be a genius to know that the red light represented.

He picked up a screwdriver and used it to unscrew the front panel of the console. Upon removing the panel, he found a sparking circuit board. Being as careful as he can, he cautiously pulled out the circuit board and immediately began inspecting it. As he looked it over, he failed to notice a small creature slowly approaching him from behind a rock. It looked like a scorpion, but had white markings upon it and glowing, menacing red eyes. It was a Sasori, a rare type of Grimm, closely related to the Death Stalker.

Like any Grimm that has found a human, it was following its instinct to attack what will be its meal. It slowly approached the boy, snapping its pincers in anticipation and its mandibles practically salivating.

"Hmm, looks like a diode's been knocked out of place." Whitley observed. This will be an easy fix.

He pressed his thumb upon the tiny component and promptly snapped back into place. The flashing red light immediately turned green, signifying that the problem had been corrected. Pleased with himself, the boy returned the circuit board to its slot. But just as the board slid back into the box, he heard a small but pained hiss close to him.

He looked down and saw the Sasori. He was initially frightened at first, as the Grimm had gotten very close to him. That fear turned into confusion as he watched the demonic scorpion thrash about, pincers snapping wildly about and tail twitching erratically. It looked as though the creature was in immense pain. The Sasori began to retreat, its eight little legs wobbling as it ran.

The Schnee regarded his failed attacker, watching every movement it made as it tried to run. Whatever confusion he felt watching the creature became primal rage as he grabbed the nearest rock. Without any hesitation, he slammed the rock down upon the Grimm. The weight of the rock combined with the boy's strength immediately crushed the Sasori, which let out a surprised and pained hiss once the rock landed. The boy then scrubbed the ground with the rock, wanting to be as thorough as possible in eliminating the small monster.

He then pulled his arm back, the rock still in his hand, eyes glued to the spot where the Grimm had been smashed. He smirked victoriously at the rewarding sight of the Sasori's squashed remains slowly evaporating into nothingness. He took a deep breath and exhaled, the exhilaration of the moment leaving his body with his breath. He had just killed a Grimm.

Whitley blinked when he realized what he had just done. He, Whitley Schnee, who had never swung a sword or shot a gun, had never punched or kicked anything, had just killed a Grimm. With a rock, of all things.

 _It was a small one,_ he reminded himself, but it was still a Grimm, nonetheless.

 _A Grimm that seemed to have been writhing in agony,_ he reminded himself. _Just what had happened to have caused the Grimm so much pain?_

He thought back to the encounter, mentally retracing his steps. When he got to the circuit board being fixed, the proverbial light bulb lit up in his mind. As soon as the light lit green, the Grimm made itself known. Putting two and two together, he realized that this device was what was harming the Grimm. Now that he thought about it, there had been no Grimm attacks in the two weeks since he arrived. With all the negative emotions that he, the other prisoners and their captors had been telegraphing, this entire camp should be an all-you-can-eat buffet for the Grimm by now.

But this device that he had just repaired, somehow, it was doing something that was able to cause extreme pain to Grimm. He wondered if it was just this device causing this strange phenomenon, or if the Fang had a series of these "Grimm-Deterrents" around the camp. He wondered how he didn't know of this device's existence, let alone that it wasn't even available to the public. This required further study.

"Hey, you finished up there, Schnee!?"

Further study will have to wait, the Schnee concluded. Picking up the panel, he set about screwing it back into place upon the console. As the screws were twisted back into place, he noticed something inscribed upon the panel. How he had missed it the first time, he did not know. It was his first clue about the origin of this strange machine.

Inscribed upon the panel were three letters. The letters seemed to be an acronym. Whether it was a government organization or company, he had no idea. But the letters represented a mystery to the young man; one that he had not known existed.

 _What the hell is A.I.M.?_ He can't help but wonder.

As he pondered the meaning behind the strange acronym, the sound of jet engines in the distance roused him. He looked to the sky, wondering where the noise was coming from. It sounded like a bullhead. Could it be the rescue team? For the first time in a while, the boy felt hope. The noise was getting louder, indicating that the aircraft was getting closer. He rose to his feet and flung his arms about, hoping that his erratic movements will catch the attention of the pilots.

Seconds later, the silver body of an Atlesian Bullhead was seen, hovering above the location in a search maneuver. Jumping up and down, shouting as loudly as he can, the boy did everything in his power to alert the rescue team to his presence. When he looked down, to make sure that he wasn't going to be caught by his captors, he saw something that completely shocked him. All the fangs within the camp were just going about their business, paying no mind to the enemy bullhead that had infiltrated their airspace. Some did see the aircraft and just laughed, as though they were pulling a fast one over them.

The boy looked up to the bullhead and watched, to his horror, as it flew off. The hope that he felt immediately became despair as he watched his rescuers leave without him. He couldn't understand it. Had they not seen him? Did they not see the large White Fang camp that was literally under their noses?

 _Or were they in on it?_ He thought in horror. It might explain why he hadn't seen a rescue team in two weeks.

 _Or, could it be something else?_ He realized.

That was when he remembered the strange domed device in the camp, the one that had some kind of projector inside of it. The boy turned his gaze toward the device, eyeing it with an analytical gaze. Could it be that the device was some kind of hologram projector; One powerful enough to hide an entire terrorist camp from the naked eye, even electronic equipment? Such technology was in the works, but only as a theory. He couldn't help but wonder how a group of extremists had been able to get their hands on such advanced technology, especially the kind that should only exist in science fiction.

 _These people have Grimm deterrent devices, a hologram projector, and are using weapons not deployed yet? Just who the hell is holding me captive?!_

"Hey, are you finished up there!" he heard Goat shout.

Startled, he looked down to his guards and replied, "Uh, yeah, the problem's been fixed!"

"Then get your pale ass down here so we can take you back to your cave!" Goat demanded, aiming his rifle up at him. "If you're not down here in five minutes, I'm gonna fill you up with so many bullets that you'll be shitting lead in your grave!"

Not wanting to test whether the man's threat was just a bluff, the young genius obliged, gathering his tools. He once again fastened his toolbox around his waist and climbed down. As he descended down the rocky crevice, he heard the sounds of a struggle from the mine's entrance. He looked over his shoulder and saw a horrifying sight.

From the darkness of the mine, three figures appeared. Two he recognized as guards, given their masks and uniforms. But it was the third person he didn't recognize. It was a sickly-looking and malnourished man dressed in rags, revealing his status as another prisoner, whom was being dragged by his arms by the guards, struggling with all his might against them. But what really caught his eye was the fact that man had two floppy dog ears atop his head. He was a Faunus.

"NO! PLEASE DON'T TAKE ME BACK THERE! NOT THE BOX, ANYTHING BUT THE BOX!" He heard the hysterical man shout. The Guards continued on.

"PLEASE, I HAVE A FAMILY, CHILDREN, JUST LET ME SEE THEM!" The prisoner pleaded desperately, kicking his feet up in a vain attempt to throw his captors off-balance.

The guards did not budge in the slightest, continuing to drag the man to wherever this so-called "box" was. He imagined that it wasn't very pleasant.

Whitley didn't understand what he had just witnessed. Were the White Fang torturing the people they were supposed to protect? He just couldn't fathom such a thought, yet he had just seen it with his own eyes that was likely the case. Just what was going on here? He can't help but wonder how his own kidnapping had become so complicated.

"Hey, Shitley, I didn't say to stop, get down here now!" He heard Goat roar impatiently.

The boy immediately resumed climbing down. Once he returned to the cavern that served as his cell, he was going to learn more about what was happening. He had questions for Yinsen and he was going to get answers. He needed to know just what it was he was dealing with here.

* * *

"I'll tell you what it is!" Happy roared, shaking with absolute rage as he stood.

"Happy, please, calm down!" Pepper said in a vain attempt at calming her beloved. She was sitting on the living room couch.

Happy raised a finger and declared, "NO! No! It's been two weeks, we've heard nothing and Jacques-ass is telling us shit!"

In the two weeks since Whitley Schnee's disappearance, Pepper and Happy have not heard anything regarding the boy. No official statements, no claims of responsibility, not even a ransom notice. What little they have learned came from rumors, accusations, and just general hearsay. Yet there was one undeniable fact wading in the waves of opinions. The fact being that Whitley Schnee had disappeared off the face of the planet.

In the time since his disappearance, the two adults had long abandoned their vacation, opting to stay at their home in Atlas. The weeks that could've been spent in warm and vibrant Vacuo, exploring the vast, untamed wilderness in relative leisure had instead been spent in cold and lifeless Atlas, waiting for news regarding their young charge in extreme discomfort. Their apartment may be luxurious and clean, with all the finest fixings of such a home, but they both would gladly give it all away if it meant that the young Schnee would be returned safe and sound.

But the sad reality was that they could do nothing. Nothing they can do could change the situation, much less improve it. All that they can do is just stay at home, let the investigation take its course, wait for any developments, and hope that the youngest Schnee will return unharmed. It was preferable to the other option.  
Though, she had to admit, it was becoming a chore trying to console VIC. She'd never thought a computer program could express sadness, as he often called her whenever he went into a panic worrying about Whitley. It had gotten so severe that not even watching cat videos can calm the A.I.

The boy's survival was what Pepper was hoping for.

She hung her head low, saying glumly. "Happy, it's out of our hands. What happens next, I don't know, but I hope it'll end with our boy returned home."

Looking at his downtrodden fiancé, Happy's gaze softened. He then knelt before her and took her hands in his, caressing them tenderly.

He then told her, "I'm sorry, Pep. This hasn't been easy for me, either. I'm the kid's bodyguard and the one time he's out of my sight, he just disappears."

"Happy, it's not your fault." Pepper reassured him. "What happened was out of our control. Even if you went with him, you'd be missing too."

It wasn't the answer Happy wanted, but it helped somewhat. The couple was regaining their spirits, when suddenly; they heard someone knocking on the door. Surprised, the lovers look to each in confusion, asking the other whether they had invited anyone. They both denied having done so, leaving them perplexed as to who would be visiting them now at this hour. It was evening and most people were either in their homes or going out on the town.

Happy approached the door. He turned the knob and opened the door. The person standing on the other side of the door was someone he never expected to visit.

Happy blinked in surprise and asked, "Winter?"

Indeed, standing at their doorstep, wearing pants and a white sweater, was none other than Winter Schnee. They had heard that the young woman had returned to Atlas, on orders from Ironwood. They have also heard that she had deigned to visit her parents, preferring to confine herself to the base. What she was doing at their doorstep, neither he nor Pepper could understand.

"Hello, Mr. Hogan," Winter politely greeted, "May I come in?"

"Uhm, sure, come right in...?" Happy quickly answered, though he didn't mean to make it sound like an uncertain suggestion.

The eldest Schnee sibling strode through the doorway, walking past the man and making her way to the living room. Pepper watched in shock as the young specialist walked in, only to stop a few inches short of the couch. With a guarded gaze, the older woman asked, "Winter? What are you doing here?"

"I needed someone to talk to," The Schnee admitted, "I have some things I need to get off my chest; staying cooped-up on a military base with nobody to talk to isn't the best way to work through grief."

Pepper's gaze softened in understanding. She scooted over to the side, motioning her goddaughter to take a seat beside her. The younger woman obliged and settled herself upon the cushioned furniture, clasping her hands together, her head barely rising above her shoulders as she gazed at the marble floor. Now in close proximity to the specialist, Pepper can make out a few features on her face. The white-haired woman's hair, though still well-cared, had many split-ends and loose strands. Her eyes were bloodshot and the tell-tale sign of dried tears ran down her cheeks.

Pepper knew in an instant what was wrong. "You're worried about your brother?"

Winter didn't deny it, stating pitifully, "Yes, of course I'm worried about Whitley. Why wouldn't I? We may not like each other that much, but he's still... still..."

She brought her hands to her face. She seemed to be on the verge of crying. The woman composed herself, not wanting to shed more than she already had.

She then confessed to her godmother. "He's still my baby brother. But I ignored him, did nothing but exacerbate the situation in our family. I abandoned him, leaving him to the wolves- no, wolves at least care about the pack, Whitley had nobody, nobody except for you, Happy, and Rhodey. I'm his flesh and blood, but I treated him like a stranger. I'm a failure of a sister."

As she continued to proverbially prostrate herself before them, the couple couldn't help but stare. Never in their wildest dreams would they imagine that Winter Schnee, a woman so prideful that she'd rather die before admit her own faults, was baring her soul for them to see. Pepper couldn't help but think back to when the specialist was a young girl, back when she had more insecurities and self-esteem issues than both of her siblings combined.

She patted the woman's back and told her, "Everything will be alright, Winnie. Yes, you did ignore Whitley for most of his life. Does that mean you failed as a sister? Yes, spectacularly so..."

Winter stared at her and whimpered, "That's a little harsh, but true..."

"But the fact that you're so worried about him shows you still care. You may have failed him, but that doesn't mean you should give up on him. When he comes home, he's gonna find his big sister here, ready to make amends and start over."

Winter smiled weakly at her words. She wondered why she hadn't visited her Godmother earlier. For the past two weeks, she had been stuck refining her skills, looking over reports, and waiting for news on her brother. Most of the friends she had made were either dead or living in another kingdom and she'd rather stay in the barracks than return to her family home. Especially now, given that Whitley's disappearance had probably caused her mother's already worrying drinking problem to worsen.

She can only frown in disappointment at what her mother had become. If her own son's disappearance can't shake her into sobriety, she doubted anything could. For now, she'll just spend some time with Pepper and Happy.

"Can I stay here tonight?" She asked with a pleading tone.

Pepper smiled and soothingly told her, "You can stay as long as you need to."

Winter smiled in gratitude for the woman's kindness. She then did something that she hadn't done since her childhood. She wrapped her arms around her godmother, embracing her in a warm embrace. Although shocked, Pepper immediately returned the gesture. Even if most of her friend's children were close to adulthood, they'll always be children to her. She may not be their mother, but she'll always do her best as any honorary aunt should.

She can only hope that, one day, Willow can become a proud mother again.

* * *

Sitting in his chair, Yinsen looked up at the boy like had had grown a second head. What Whitley had told him was just so out there, that he had to wonder whether he should check if the boy had been raiding his medical supplies for painkillers.

He then asked incredulously, "A hologram projector and a gizmo that's essentially Grimm repellent, is that what you're really suggesting?"

Whitley can't blame the doctor's skepticism. If he had not seen it with his own eyes and had heard it from someone else, he'd have been hard-pressed to believe it, too.

The boy then said in his own defense, "I know it sounds crazy. But nothing about this has been normal. So, is it really that much of a stretch to say that something like those things exists?"

Yinsen stroked his beard in deep thought. He told the boy, "I'm not saying it's not out of the realm of possibility. I'd just find it hard to believe that such a group would have access to something as advanced as this device. Especially the device you claimed could harm Grimm."

"Well, the fact is that these people have this kind of tech and they're getting it from somewhere. Speaking of, you wouldn't happen to know what A.I.M. is, would you." The boy asked, hoping the old man can answer that particular question.

"It sounds familiar. I don't know the exact details, but from what I've heard from the fangs I've stitched up, it sounds like they're the reason for the group's sudden upgrade. It'd be fair to say that it must be some kind of group that deals in tech, particularly of the advanced and dangerous variety." Yinsen replied, not entirely sure if that was the case.

Whitley considered the doctor's words, but he had already come to the same conclusion. He had long suspected that his captors were not the typical, run-of-the-mill fanatics.

They may have had military training, but that wasn't rare. They had stolen weaponry, but that was typical of any extremist group. No, what set these people apart from the main White Fang organization was that they had resources. He had taken a good, long look at their camp as he was fixing their little problem, and what he startled him. He had seen crates, of varying sizes, that belonged to many different companies. Upon these boxes, he saw the names and logos of companies like the SDC, Oscorp, Hammertech, and even Rand Enterprises.

But the one thing that truly separated them from the Fangs was more horrifying. They were willing to imprison and torture their own people. He had known the White Fang were ruthless, but they never stooped as low as to attack the people they claimed to represent. When he saw that Faunus being dragged away by his fellow Faunus, it finally sunk in the kind of people he was dealing with. They were the kind willing to achieve victory by any means necessary, even if it meant sacrificing those they claimed to fight for.  
But there was still a question as to what they were doing to the Faunus prisoners.

"Hey," He asked as he turned to the doctor, "Can you tell me what the Box is?"

Yinsen froze at the question. He looked up at the boy and hurriedly asked, "Where did you hear about that?"

"There was a man, a prisoner, being dragged away by the guards. He was underfed, like he hadn't been fed in a while, the rags he wore were barely clinging to his body." Whitley explained, purposely leaving out the fact that the man was a Faunus.

He had to see if Yinsen knew about what was going on.

"Was the man a Faunus?" The old man asked with a resigned tone. Whitley had his confirmation. The boy answered back, "Yes, he was a faunus."

The doctor took a deep breath then sighed. He had hoped that his young patient would not see the true depths of his captor's cruelty. He can't help but feel how ironic it was that the son of the man they hated most was treated more fairly than their Faunus prisoners. He then heard the boy ask, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Yinsen looked the Schnee in the eyes and asked him, "Would you have cared if I told you?"

Whitley balked at the question and angrily grounded out, "I'm sorry, but what did you just say?"

Yinsen rose to his feet, towering over the boy, whom stood his ground. The doctor then asked him with a calm and steady tone, "Would you have cared if you knew what they were doing to Faunus? Can you, Whitley _Schnee_ , honestly say that you would have shed a tear if you saw Faunus oppressing other Faunus?"

Whitley can't believe the audacity of this man. He may have saved his life, but where did this man get off critiquing his character? He also didn't appreciate the fact that Yinsen was dodging the topic

His face scrunched in anger, asking with an absolutely venomous tone, "Then enlighten me, doctor. Why wouldn't I cry over some Faunus?"

"Do I really have to spell it out for you? You're a Schnee, boy. The empire your father built was done so upon the blood, sweat, and tears of hard-working Faunus. Every single one of those men and women out there has, in some way, lost friends and family in the mines. Hell, there were people that treated Faunus like cattle long before Jacques Schnee was even born."

Whitley didn't know why, but for some reason, he clenched his fists and started to shake. He didn't like what the doctor was implying. Yinsen rose from his seat, towering over the boy as he gave him a disgusted sneer.

The man then told the boy, "When I look at you, you know what I see, boy? I see another reminder of the man who has destroyed the lives of many families just to fill his own coffers. You know it wouldn't surprise me if you're just another Jacques Schnee in the mak- OOF!"

Yinsen felt the wind knocked out of him as the boy planted a fist in his gut. In this dimly-lit cave, with the glow of the arc reactor serving as the brightest source of light, allowed the man to get a better look at the young man's face. What he saw surprised him. He had seen the boy express many emotions during his time here, be it frustration, relief, and shock. But what he was seeing was new. The boy's eyes were narrowed sharply, his nose scrunched up, and his teeth bared themselves like a snarling animal. The emotion he saw was outrage.

"I am going to say this once," Whitley began before he angrily snarled, "Don't you EVER compare me to my father! Yes, I have treated many people, Faunus and humans alike, as means to an end, I admit it. But to have your dignity stripped away, to be beaten like dogs and treated lower than even shit? Nobody and I mean, NOBODY, deserves such cruelty!"

Yinsen wheezed out, "Is that your honest opinion?"

Whitley retracted his fist from the man's gut, saying with a steeled resolve. "I'd rather die than treat anyone like that."

The doctor stared at the young man for what seemed like an eternity. He gauged the Schnee's response, searching for even the barest hint of deception. When he found none, he was honestly shocked to see that the boy was being genuine in his remarks. Then he did something that really surprised the boy. He smiled and let out a laugh. He then told the boy, "That was a good answer."

Whitley's response was a rather intelligent, "Huh?"

"I had my doubts about, Mr. Schnee. Never have I been so happy to have been wrong." Yinsen said as he sat back, slightly wincing from the punch. Who knew that such a scrawny kid could pack so much strength into a single punch? He certainly didn't.

"Wait... was that some kind of test?!" Whitley asked incredulously, pointing an accusatory finger at the doctor.

"Yeah, and you passed with flying colors! You may be his son, but you are definitely a better person than your father." Yinsen praised, giving the boy a congratulatory smile.  
The doctor calmed himself before composing himself back into a serious demeanor. He then asked, "If you really do care about what's happening here, then I'll tell you about the Box... But you might not like what you hear. Are you sure that you want to know?"

"I don't want to know, I need to know." Whitley pressed.

He looked over to the area where Doyle had been executed, his eyes falling on the dried blood that marked his spot of execution. The Schnee clenched his fists. He had to know what was really going on here. He had to learn all of the ugly truths surrounding this den of lies. He owed it to Doyle, to the Dog Faunus, and to all the soldiers who had already died in his place.

He pulled up a nearby chair and sat in it. He looked the doctor dead in the eyes and asked, "Tell me everything."

"First, let me ask you a question. How would you describe the faunus prisoner?"

"Frail, malnourished, like he was close to death and the rags he wore looked old and unwashed." Whitley answered.

"So, he really was being sent to the Box..." Yinsen morosely realized.

"What is the Box?"

"I've only heard from the Fangs that I've patched- funny, what people will say when they're doped up- but the Box is a deep but very small hole located somewhere in the camp. They toss prisoners into it and leave them there for days without any water or food." Yinsen explained, his features darkening with each word.

"Who do they usually send?" Whitley asked, though he knew he was going to hate the answer,

"That's the worst part. The prisoners they put in that hole are people whom Vryolak and Savin have declared as race traitors."

Whitley's face scrunched up in confusion, "Race traitors? What do you mean?"

Yinsen sighed, wondering how he can phrase that question. He promised to tell the boy the truth of what was going on here, but he didn't know how he'll take it.

In the end, he decided to not mince words, "Vryolak and Savin hate humans. Why they've kept the surviving soldiers alive this long, I don't know why. For Vryolak, probably some sick form of entertainment. But there is one thing that they hate more than humans, and it's Faunus who live peacefully with humans. I'm talking about people who are either friends with humans, have human siblings, or have even married and started families with humans."

Whitley processed what he had just heard. The people holding him captive, who claimed to be the White Fang, they were actually far worse. He had thought they were simply just fanatics who've broken off from the main group over a disagreement, but it'd be more accurate to say that the White Fang had disavowed Vryolak and Savin's group.

"Then what is the point in torturing those people? Why prolong their suffering?"

"That's where it gets really disturbing. Vryolak and Savin are trying to break them mentally, wear them down until they're practically broken. Once they've done it, they'll build them back, but only as their loyal soldiers. They'd basically be brainwashed."

Whitley felt his stomach drop. He then hesitantly asked, "A-And the ones they don't break?"

Yinsen frowned and told the boy, "I think you already know the answer to that."

Whitley gulped, fear and anxiety gripping his heart. He knew full well what happened to those that wouldn't break under the pressure.

 _…Eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head..._

"I know it's a lot to take in."

"That is an understatement..." he ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "I knew things here were bad, but... I'm sorry, but this is just too fucked up... like, that expression is literally the only way I can describe this situation. I mean, I can understand their hate toward humans, but this, I just can't fathom how anyone would _willingly_ be this cruel."

Yinsen looked at the boy with a pitying look.

He then asked him. "Do you know why they do those things?"

"No... Why?"

"It's as I said earlier. Hate. That's how these horrific things come about, Schnee. When you hate someone or something for so long, it becomes the one thing you live for. It eats you up on the inside, tearing away at your soul until, one day, you wake up and realize you're so empty that there's nothing left of who you once were. All that's left is the hate and nothing else."

"How do you know that?" Whitley asked, wondering what the man would say.

Yinsen sighed, "Because I've been where they're at right now. For the longest time, I hated humans, too."

Whitley froze at that statement. After a few seconds to process what he had just heard, he looked at Yinsen in shock. Looking back, he remembered all the signs. How Yinsen was able to move about freely in this cave at night and how the Fangs treated him with more respect than they did him. All this time, how could he have not seen it?

The boy then asked in disbelief, "You? You're a Faunus?"

Rather than give a verbal answer, the doctor chose to raise his hands. Flexing them, his nails grew longer, becoming claws. Whitley didn't know what to feel. The man who had saved him, who had cared for his wounds, and had offered guidance to him was a Faunus. A Faunus had saved him, a Schnee? It didn't make sense. It _shouldn't_ make sense.

He gripped his knees and weakly asked, "Why?"

Yinsen lowed his hands, retracted his claws and blinked, "Why what?"

"Why save my life? Knowing who I am, what my family has done to your people, why did you do everything in your power to save my life? Don't you hate me?" The boy's tone became desperate. "Please, answer me! Why did you save me?!"

Nonplussed by the teenager's outburst, the doctor thought about how he should reply. Seconds passed before he found his answer. He chose to tell him the truth.

He replied, "Because I want to be a good person."

Whitley did not say a word. Was it really that simple? Was there really no ulterior motive behind what he did? Did this man, who had every reason to hate him, really save his life because he thought it was the right thing to do?

 _No, there had to be another reason... No one is that kind._ The boy thought to himself. _But then, maybe I should just have more trust in people... or should it just be more in myself?_

 _Gods, my head hurts!_

"Are you alright, Schnee?" Yinsen asked in concern.

"Yeah... No, at least I don't think so..." The boy took a deep breath and exhaled. "I think I need some rest."

Yinsen knew what his patient was going through. It seemed that Whitley Schnee was having a crisis of faith. He can understand why. It's not every day when someone suddenly find themselves questioning everything about their whole life, picking apart and analyzing every facet of their being, their views on others, and everything they've done in life up to that point. It wasn't easy, and it's especially rough when they were at a certain age. He knew that from personal experience.

"Go get some, son. You need it." The doctor kindly offered, telling the boy to return to his cot.

He watched the boy rise from his seat, walking slowly back to his cot. As soon as the boy laid his head upon the bed, Yinsen went back to checking his supplies. As the doctor looked over his inventory, the young heir spent his time thinking back on everything he has done or believed.

He then thought back to his time at ATI, shunning and looking down on people as he worked toward his degree, his only friend being Zeke Stane. He remembered when he would sometimes betray people to advance his own reputation. He recalled his childhood, especially after the incident after Weiss' birthday, when he began to treat other people as a means to an end. His trip through memory lane concluded with his trip to Anima, when the very weapons he helped developed were turned against him and the soldiers they were meant to protect. The thought that he had built something which had actually killed other people finally sank in.

He recalled every bad thing he had ever done, which outnumbered the good he did, and soon came to an epiphany that he thought would never occur to him. He knew he had to be a better person, but never did he consider his past.

 _Am I a bad person?_

* * *

 _When he came to, the first thing Whitley felt was the old and worn fabric of his grandmother's sofa. He was back in his grandmother's house again. The boy palmed his face and groaned, "I'm really not in the mood for this."_

 _"Tough toenails, Kid. Just get up, we need to talk." He heard a voice demand. He recognized the voice as being his own; and here he thought things couldn't get any worse._

 _"Oh, great, you again..." He moaned in displeasure. He thought he was done with this._

 _Reluctantly, Whitley rose to his feet. He looked around the room, but found no sign of his mental menace. Seconds passed as he waited for his doppelganger to appear. When seconds became minutes, his patience finally began to thin. He then irritably called out, "Alright, where are you?!"_

 _He heard his doppelganger reply, "I'm right behind you, actually."_

 _He turned to face his counterpart. The other Whitley, or Whit as he had taken to calling him, was lounging on the sofa, feet propped upon an armrest and reading a book. Rather than the attire he had become accustomed to seeing, which had been his usual clothing, his other self was instead dressed in a pristine, white business suit._

 _Whit looked up from his book and cordially greeted him, "How's it going?"_

 _This attitude was definitely new for Whitley. Usually when Whit showed up in his dreams, it was either to torment and terrify him, often with a very intense and mocking attitude to match. Now, he seemed to be rather relaxed and laidback, acting as if he hadn't terrorized him for the past two weeks. Gone was the sadistic and psychotic aura, replaced by a pleasant and calming one. It only served to unnerve the heir further._

 _"What is this?" Whitley asked in disbelief, "No, really, what are you planning now?"_

 _"Well, nothing actually, there's no point. My work is done." Whit replied, returning to his book and ignoring the confused teenager._

 _Angered by his doppelganger's nonchalance, Whitley incredulously asked, "Your work? What work? All that you've done was to make my every dream a damn nightmare!"_

 _"Well, don't blame me; I'm just a figment of your effed up imagination. Haven't you stopped to consider that maybe everything that's happened was meant to teach you a lesson?" Whit calmly replied, closing his book. He then sat up and looked Whitley square in the eyes. "Can you honestly say you haven't learned anything from these little trips into your psyche?"_

 _Whitley tried to refute his doppelganger's claims, but found that he was unable. No matter how much he tried to deny it, he can admit that they indeed had helped him. His dreams did lead him to create the Arc Reactor, which had saved his life. But what lesson was there to be learned from the others? He failed to see how having his heart removed can teach him anything, especially watching a disturbing funeral or being tormented by the faces of all the people he knew and had died in his place._

 _"Enlighten me, "He asked, "Please, explain to me what lessons were there to be learned in all those nightmares?"_

 _"I don't need to explain them to you when you already know the answer- no, you found the question. Do you know what that all important question is?"_

 _Whitley thought for a moment. Just what could the question be? He thought back to before he fell asleep, retracing his steps through the whole day. He then came back to his last coherent thought, from before the stress of the whole day had finally worn him down to sleep. He turned to his sitting counterpart, who looked at him expectantly._

 _He then asked with a weak voice, "Am I a bad person?"_

 _Whit smiled and clapped, jumping to his feet as he cheered, "Ding-Ding-Ding, we have a winner! Tell the boy what he's won! What's that, alright, I should tell him?"_

 _Whit snapped his fingers, causing an envelope to appear in his hand. He held it out to Whitley, whom simply stared at it with suspicion. He then asked, "Is there a human finger in there?"_

 _Whit looked appalled. "My gods, what do you take me for, a serial killer?"_

 _"You literally ripped my heart out!" Whitley angrily reminded him._

 _Whit shrugged, "It got better."_

 _"You made me watch my own damn funeral!"_

 _"Name one other person who can make that claim."_

 _"You're really pushing me on this, aren't you?"_

 _It was then that Whit's patience finally snapped. "Look, just take the damn envelope! There's nothing sinister going on, no sort of trick, it's just an envelope with the answer to your question inside it."_

 _Whitley eyed the envelope, debating with himself whether to take it or not. On the one hand, it could be a trick, a sort of underhanded tactic to lull him into a false sense of security. He had to admit, his dream counterpart was putting on quite the convincing display, and he honestly seemed like a different person. His attitude, on the other hand, seemed to be genuine and it was really convincing him to accept the small slip of paper. Then again, this was all a dream and nothing that could happen within his mind can actually hurt him in the real world._

 _After considering all the possibilities, Whitley made his decision. "Fuck it. I'll take the envelope."_

 _With that said, he took the offered parcel. He quickly ripped the top off, revealing a small greeting card nestled within it. He took the card out and opened it to see the message written inside. As soon as he saw the writing, he had to read it twice to see if his eyes weren't playing tricks on him._

 _He then looked to Whit and asked, "What is this? I don't understand what this means."_

 _Holding the opened card out to its original holder, he presented the answer written within it. They were just two words, typed in black lettering in a very large font, as though it were written on a computer._

 _The answer to his life-changing question was, "It's complicated."_

 _"No, really, what kind of an answer is that? I asked "am I a bad Person" and this is the answer I get?" Whitley complained. He had expected a yes or a no, not this cryptic and vague response._

 _"Hey, I'm just a figment of your imagination; don't blame me if you don't like what your brain's trying to tell you." Whit defensively said, holding his hands up in a placating manner._

 _"But I don't know what it's trying to tell me! I was expecting another nightmare, not this vague bullshit! It's complicated? What kind of weak response is that? What am I supposed to do with that?"_

 _Whitley waited with bated breath to hear what Whit would say. His mental counterpart just shrugged his shoulders and told him. "Look, we may be inside your head, but you're not going to find all the answers to your problems in here. Some things you just have to work out, on your own. Besides, I think you have bigger problems than questioning your own morality."_

 _Whitley exhaled, trying to calm his nerves. As loathe as he was to admit it, Whit had a point. In the two weeks since he'd been captured, there had not been a single rescue operation. The camp was so well-hidden, that not even a bullhead hovering overhead could see it, thanks to that damned hologram projector. Not to mention that he was being forced to build weapons that were being used to hurt innocent people. He also can't forget about the prisoners, soldiers and Faunus alike, who were being tortured to near death by their captors._

 _"I have to do something," Whitley declared, a new resolve building within him. "I've got to get out of here, but I can't do that without leaving all those people behind."_

 _"So, what can you do?" Whit asked with a curious tone._

 _"I don't know! If I try anything, they'll just execute another soldier! Hell, for all I know, those soldiers are already dead and they'll just kill one of the Faunus prisoners, even then, what's to stop them from filling me up with bullets?!" Whitley dropped onto the couch, sinking into the cushions as he thought his options over._

 _Then he felt his head rest on something hard._

 _He lifted his head slightly, allowing room for his hand to come through. He felt something leathery and worn, but also very thick with paper. It was the book that Whit had been reading when he had appeared. He pulled the book out. He held it over his head to read the cover. What he saw made his eyes widen in surprise, as well as a feeling of nostalgia to well up within him._

 _It was an old book, published in 1914, about four years before the Great War began. The golden-colored cover was worn from age, but the imagery was as clear as the day it was printed. The picture was that of a knight standing resolute against a mighty dragon, which was breathing fire upon the warrior. The knight's shield was raised, protecting from the flames of the dragon's deadly breath. He remembered this book quite well, as did his sisters. Their Grandmother had read it to them all the time when they were younger. She had told them that it had been their mother's favorite when she had been a child, as well as her own._

 _The heir smiled as he read the title, "The Iron Knight..."_

 _"Ah, so you remember this?" Whit asked in surprise._

 _"Yeah, the story of a brave hero who fought to protect the land from the vicious monsters that sought to destroy it. The Iron Knight was brave, noble, and selfless, everything I wanted to be when I was kid. I always loved how we would charge into battle with nothing but his sword, shield, and his armor-"Whitley froze as a thought occurred to him._

 _He rose to sit on the cushions, analyzing the book's cover._

 _"Armor...?" He mused, lost in deep thought._

 _As his eyes roamed over the image of the knight, his mind was formulating an idea. If was so worried about being shot, then why not build some kind of protective covering? A sort of armor that he can wear that not only protected him, but could also deal just as much damage to those that sought his end. He looked over to Whit, who was grinning like an absolute mad man, and found that he shared his opinion. He had found the solution to his most immediate problem._

 _"That's it!" He excitedly yelled, rising to his feet._  
_

Whitley shot up in his bed. He rose so quickly that he nearly fell out of his cot. Even if that had happened, he wouldn't have cared. He was far too over the moon to care about his pride. He looked over to where Yinsen's cot was located and found that the doctor had turned in to sleep. It must have been late, if the old man was already asleep.

 _Good, just mean's I can work all night without anyone looking over my shoulder._

With his mind made up, the young genius got to his feet. After retrieving some paper and pencils, he set a small space for himself at a nearby table. Using a small, battery-powered light, he began to design the means for his eventual liberation. All through the night, he stayed up, tossing out rejected designs and coming up with new ones. The reasons behind each redesign varied; either they were too bulky, too vulnerable, or just seemed seemed to waste too much energy. Within hours, he found the design that he felt was well-rounded, easy to build, and didn't sacrifice mobility for protection.

 _It also looks pretty badass, too._ He thought proudly.

He gazed upon his blueprints one last time before sleep finally took him.

* * *

"Wake up! Wake up, you damned idiot, wake up!"

Having rested his head on a table, Whitley's neck felt stiff. He cricked his neck, which let out a popping sound. He looked over to the one who had roused him from his sleep, Yinsen, and smiled weakly.

"What are you smiling about?" The doctor asked, "You have any idea what time it is?"

The boy shook his head. He had honestly lost track of time last night, for all he knew he had slept into the afternoon. When he asked what the time was, Yinsen told him that it was early in the morning, about 5:30, to be exact. What had felt like a long sleep had actually lasted a few short hours. He then asked the old man, "What are you so upset about? It's not like I woke up in the evening or something."

"It's not when you woke up that upset me, but how long you must have slept. Don't try and lie to me, I know you got up in the middle of the night. Not to mention you were resting at a table. Do you have any idea how bad that is for your back?" Yinsen lectured, carrying on as though he were a strict college professor. His attire did well in selling that image.

Whitley, though, was not intimidated and quipped, "And I take it you know this from personal experience, Doc? Spent too many nights at the office, I reckon?"

"I worked mostly from home, but that's not important! What's important is why you stayed up so late last night. As your physician, I can't have you engaging in unhealthy sleep patterns! It'll mess you up! Haven't you listened to what I've been telling you?!" The doctor pressed, wondering what had possessed the young man to ignore his warnings.

Instead of answering the man's questions, Whitley chose to tap the small stack of papers upon the table instead. He motioned the old man to look at the papers, whom promptly did so. As soon as his eyes landed on them, he couldn't help but wonder why the boy was making him look a sketch of strange designs.

The old man raised a confused eyebrow and asked, "What is it am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Oh, sorry, forgot I sketched parts of the design on different papers." Whitley apologized, placing both of his hands upon the papers. He then said, "Let me flatten them out."  
Whitley flattened the papers, allowing Yinsen to see what the boy was.

Suffice to say, he was impressed. Hidden across several pieces of paper was an impressive suit of Armor, one that was designed to look both intimidating yet functional. He looked to his young charge and asked, "What is this?"

The boy smiled and explained, "Our ticket out of here."

Having heard the boy's words, the old doctor examined the hidden blueprint once again. It could work, he supposed. He asked, "And you're saying you can build this?"

"By my estimates, this can be built within two months. I'll be the one to wear it. Before you ask, no, I wasn't going to ask you to wear it. Not to be rude, but it might've been too hard for someone at your age."

Choosing to ignore that crack about his age, Yinsen stroke his chin, wondering how they'll be able to hide this project from the prying eyes of Vryolak and Savin. When he asked his young friend, the heir informed him that they'll just hide the larger components of the project beneath piles of junk that he was unable to repair. He already had a sizeable pile located in a corner of the cave, which couldn't be seen unless someone was looking for it specifically. The doctor thought that could work, but then another issue presented itself.

"With all the metal we're going to use and since you'll be the one inside it, you're gonna have to bulk a bit." He told the boy.

There was no way a scrawny teenager like Whitley can wear all that metal without getting weighed down.

Whitley agreed, "I thought about that. Despite the exoskeleton I'll build for this, I know that it'll still require a lot muscle." He rubbed his hands together. "Alright, so what's the plan? Am I going full body-builder on this?"

Yinsen chuckled, "No, nothing like that. If you put all your effort into developing muscles, you're gonna stay short forever. A light diet would do, but with plenty of exercise. Given where we are, this won't be a problem."

"So you're gonna help me on this? Is that what you're saying?"

The man smiled and spoke. "Yes, you have my full sup-"

Whitley cut him off, "Not so fast there, doc. If you're gonna help me, I need to know if I can trust you. You kept a lot of things from me, things I should have known about. If we're going to work together, I need to be 100% certain if I can trust you."

"Well, how do I earn your trust?"

"Well, let's start with a simple question: Where are you from?"

Yinsen blinked, "And that's it? Are you serious?

"Oh, I am very serious. You see this face?" Whitley circled his hand around his expressionless face, "This is my serious face. You know the face people use when they're being serious?"

The doctor can see where the boy was coming from. If this was how he was going to earn his trust, he'll tell him what he'll need. But only what he thinks the teenage to know.

The last thing he wants is pity. With a resigned sigh, the doctor made his choice.

"I come from a small village called Gulmira..."

* * *

 **This is where Whitley finally begins his journey as Iron Man! Next chapter will be a two month time skip, one in which you all finally get to see the moment we've all been waiting for. I hope everybody can figure out the significance of this chapter's title.**

 **I am so sorry it took so long to upload another chapter. I've been busy with summer classes, registering for fall classes, and I had to go through a damn tornado in June. I've also been working on other fanfiction projects, either as a beta-reader or as a writer. Speaking of writing, I have another story titled "Two Knights at Arkham", an Arkhamverse/Rwby story written as part of a story challenge. Be sure to check out the other stories in the catalogue, especially "the Blonde and the Bat", written by all-around great writer, Sai Kunai Blade.**

 **Now, here's a question for all of you. Should I write shorter chapters, about 5-7,000 words long, so that this story can be updated more frequently? Or do you all prefer the story as is, being 14-15,000 words longs. Let me know in the review section.**

 **Anyway, this is Nacoma23. Stay classy, everybody. Expect another chapter to be ready within one to two months this time.**


	6. Some Things You Can't Escape, Part 1

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **Update: More Birthdays!**

 **Willow Schnee (November 16th, 1963)**

 **Ruby Rose (October 31st, 1992)**

 **Yang Xiao-Long (September 27th, 1990)**

 **Pepper Potts (March 8th, 1962)**

 **Harold "Happy" Hogan (April 14th, 1959)**

 **Ezekiel Stane (September 19th, 1990)**

 **Whitney Stane (November 2nd, 1991)**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter Six: Some Things You Can't Escape (Part 1)**

* * *

 _ **BREAKING NEWS! SCHNEE HEIR KIDNAPPED, FATHER COVERED IT UP!**_

 _On the company's official Facespace page, the president of the Schnee Dust Company, Jacques Schnee, released a statement on the whereabouts of his son, Whitley Schnee. After more than two months of speculations, fueled by rumors of potential foul play, the fifty-four year old tycoon finally revealed that his son, rather than spending a relaxing vacation in Anima, has indeed gone missing. While no individuals or organizations have claimed responsibility for the young man's disappearance, many are of the opinion that the radical Faunus group, White Fang, is somehow connected._

 _In a report released to the public by a joint Atlas-Mistral investigation team, the young Schnee, a recent graduate from the venerated Atlas Technology Institute, was being escorted to the demonstration of a classified weapons system. At some point, the boy's military escort came under attack by an unknown party, as recorded in a black box retrieved at the crash site of a downed military bullhead. Tragically, it has been confirmed that at least eleven of the twenty-five soldiers assigned to the boy's protection detail have been killed, with the rest listed as missing-in-action, possibly taken prisoner._

 _In the two months since the disappearance, a search-and-rescue operation has been launched, which has yet to yield any success in the boy's retrieval. The search is expected to last until the end of the month. When asked his thoughts regarding the fate of his son, Jacques Schnee stated the following._

" _I love my son as much as I do my whole family. My boy is a brilliant young man with a bright and promising future. I will do everything within my power to see that he is returned safely home. To the families of the soldiers killed or taken prisoner, I give my sincerest condolences. No parent deserves to bury their own child."_

 _The rest of the Schnee family could not be reached for comment. Until then, whatever the outcome, the proud and dedicated staff of the Atlas Globe sends their deepest sympathies to the Schnee family and prays that the gods will grant them favor in the form of their son's return. They also extend prayers to the families of the missing soldiers, as well as our condolences to those of the slain._

 _There will be more on this story as it develops._

 _(The Mantle Mask Killer strikes again; 11_ _th_ _victim in serial murder spree, see pg. 1)_

 _(Hammer Industries announces final buyout of Mantle Metropolitan Police Department; Business and Law Enforcement ethics groups in uproar, see pg. 3)_

 _(Another bank robbery in Mantle; Witnesses claim suspect shot ice from wrists, see pg. 6)_

 _-Excerpt from an article printed in the Atlas Globe, written by Vera Million, published July 13_ _th_ _, 2008 KC._

* * *

In the dining room of the Stane household, the children of the family patriarch sat silently as the long dining table. Whitney was enjoying the breakfast she had prepared for herself, consisting of a nutritious balance of scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice. The blonde was rather pleased with how she had prepared the eggs, considering it had been her first time cooking them scrambled. As she was seventeen, nearly close to adulthood, she had to learn all the skills necessary to be a self-sufficient member of society. Her older brother, Ezekiel, was also expected to learn such skills. She looked over at her brother, wondering what he was eating. To her surprise, Zeke was perusing through scroll, eyes staring intently at the screen.

He narrowed his brows and exclaimed. "Ugh, can you believe this bullshit?"

Surprised by her brother's sudden use of coarse language, Whitney Stane could only ask. "What do you mean, Zeke?"

Ezekiel Stane held his scroll to his sister, showing her the article he had been reading. The young blonde read the title of the article, word for word, only to find that she was perplexed. She then asked her brother with a confused tone. "You're upset about Mr. Schnee worrying about his own son?"

Zeke clicked his tongue and scoffed. He then coldly remarked. "If the man was really that worried about Whitley, he would've done something two months ago."

Whitney frowned as she thought about the past two months. After his graduation from ATI, Zeke had been planning to enjoy a nice, relaxing vacation in northern Anima. Naturally, they had invited the youngest Schnee scion to join them, but he refused, wanting to spend more time in Atlas to learn more about his family's company. As the daughter of one of Atlas' most powerful men, second only to Jacques Schnee in influence, she can understand why her young friend chose to do so. However, she also knew that Whitley wanted to confront his father, wanting to understand why the man had chosen to ignore his own son's graduation.

Given what she knew about the man, it was more than likely that he simply didn't care enough to remember his son was graduating. She knew that he was more focused on Weiss, as she was currently the designated heiress to his position as head of the company. She thought it was, in her opinion; the irony that the father favored the prodigal and rebellious daughter to be the inheritor of his legacy, rather than the dutiful son who had sacrificed his own happiness to please him. She can't even begin to imagine what Jacques Schnee's thought process was like. Her own father had privately stated his own opinion on the matter, one that she wholeheartedly agreed with.

The opinion being that Weiss, while doubtlessly a skilled warrior, would never make it in the business world. She had nothing against the white-haired girl; in fact, she considered her to be one of her closest friends, but even she had to admit that Weiss being in charge of the SDC was a disaster waiting to happen. Not that she'd ever tell the girl.

"And what do you think about all of this?" She asked her brother, curious to hear his thoughts on the matter.

"Just as I said, it's one, huge steaming pile of bullshiiii..." The wheelchair-bound teen held his tongue as his eyes looked past his sister.

Confused by her brother's action, the girl turned in her seat. Standing in the open doorway, arms crossed with a disapproving stare was their father, Obadiah. The bald billionaire raised an eyebrow and told his son. "Oh, don't stop on my account, please continue."

"Shit?" Zeke finished, though he was somewhat fearful. If there was one thing that his father did not tolerate, it was the use of foul language in his own house.

Obadiah smiled and then laughed. "Don't worry, son, this is an open house, no need to keep your opinions to yourself"

Then he added in a serious tone. "But, seriously, if I ever hear you say either the "f" or "c" words, consider yourself grounded for a month, and don't use the excuse that you're old enough to say such things. As long as you're living under my roof, you follow my rules. When you have your own roof, feel free to use whatever words you want. Am I clear?"

Zeke meekly replied. "Crystal. Sorry, Dad"

The Stane patriarch nodded, accepting the apology. He joined his children at the dining table, taking a seat next to Whitney. He noticed the scroll in his daughter's hands. Leaning over, his eyes locked onto the headline presented upon the tiny screen. He sighed as soon as he read the words, asking with a sorrowful tone. "You're both worried about him, aren't you?"

The Stane offspring kept silent, but it was enough of an answer for their father. Obadiah continued speaking. "Look, I know it's been rough. Those two weeks we spent at Akame resort were nerve-wracking. While we were relaxing on the beach, Whitley was kidnapped. I can't begin to imagine what he's going through, but I know he'll pull through."

"How would you know? Whitley's smart, but he's not a fighter like Weiss or Winter," Zeke stated as a matter-of-effect. He knew full well that the Schnee preferred building machines rather than muscles, and that he barely handed pain.

Obadiah smiled at his son and replied. "Yeah, I can admit he's not a fighter, but that doesn't mean he's not tough. Don't forget, he's a Schnee, just like his sisters, and if it's one thing those three have in common, it's that they all have their grandfather's determination..."

But then he frowned, "Still, I don't appreciate what Jacques pulled with that bogus vacation story. Did he honestly expect people to believe it?"

"Didn't the board raise any concerns?" Zeke asked, curious to see what the collective position of his father's colleagues was.

"Well, old Kenjiro was having none of it, but Jacques just ignored him, as he often does. Midas and Cord, being the grade-A kissasses that they are, fully agreed with his decision. Ms. Bain was against it initially, but ultimately came around to it. Unsurprisingly, Stone was all for it."

Zeke sneered at the mention of the last name. "Tiberius Stone. Seriously, what was Jacques thinking hiring that jerkoff as head of R&D? He should've left him at Oscorp where he found him."

Obadiah nodded, agreeing with his son's sentiments. He also had no love for the young scientist, likening him to an upstart. His son's issue with Stone was far more personal. It was no secret that Stone and Zeke hated the other's guts. Zeke thought Stone was an "arrogant, smug snake", who's only redeeming quality was his intelligence and expertise in experimental pharmaceuticals. Stone, on the other hand, considered the Stane progeny a "petulant, ungrateful child" who had spent his life riding on his father's coattails.

 _Not to mention he always makes those damn cripple jokes around me... Prick._ Zeke recalled, cursing the man for his insensitive remarks regarding his condition. The fact Stone knew full well that his comments were offensive further infuriated the young man.

"Changing topic, so that Zeke keeps his cool, I still need to know one thing." Whitney interjected, hoping to steer the discussion away from the scientist.

Obadiah turned his attention to his daughter. She then asked, "Just what was it that forced Mr. Schnee to cancel his trip to Anima?"

"Well, it was hush-hush at the time, but I think you two deserve to know. About a few hours before the ball, Jacques received a call from Harold Meachum."

Zeke blinked in surprise, "The CEO of Rand Enterprises?"

Obadiah nodded and spoke, "The very same. Meachum and Jacques had been negotiating for a few months. Apparently, Rand's profits have been, shall we say, extremely lackluster. So they decided to recoup their losses by selling off their overseas facilities to different companies."

"So he decided to sell off his Solitas holdings to Jacques?" Zeke asked.

Obadiah continued speaking, "Yep. Anyway, hours before Weiss' going-away ball Meachum called. He had agreed to Jacques' offer, saying it was more lucrative than what Hammer was offering. They agreed to meet within a day to finalize the deal."

"So Jacques basically sent his son to Anima because he didn't want to miss out on a deal?" Zeke asked, though his father and sister both heard the indignant tone.

"I think it's apparent by now that Jacques considers himself a businessman first and a father third." His father answered, though his words confused his children.

Whitney asked confusedly. "Wait, _third_? Don't you mean _second_?"

"No, He's a businessman first, opportunist second. Do you really think that man wouldn't skip on an opportunity for some lien? He'd sell his own mother for a single coin. He thought it was more important to take advantage of a company that's been in freefall since '96."

* * *

"97..."

As his arms pushed his body away from the floor, the young man began to feel the full effects of his strenuous workout. His heart was pounding furiously against his chest, his blood boiling and racing through his veins, and his newly-developed muscles were beginning to strain from the prolonged exercise. Two months ago, he would have been offended at the very thought of him practicing any form of physical exercise. He had always been more of a thinker than an athlete. But for his escape plan to work, he had to push his body to limits he had never once considered passing. He lowered himself, his sweaty face nearly touching the cold, carved stone floor. Then he pushed himself up again.

"98..."

Honestly, he was impressed with himself. After the first few weeks, this routine became as natural for him as breathing air. Every morning, when he woke up, he would stretch and then start his workout. After finishing one exercise, he would move on to the next, and then another. It had been difficult at first, given his prior physical state, but slowly, his muscles grew, as did his strength and endurance. At the beginning, he would have become winded before even pushing 5, but now, he can push past 40 without breaking a sweat. It was around the seventies when the fatigue began to set in, during the final exercise.

"99..."

He wondered how many push-ups his sister, Winter, can work through before fatigue set in. Considering that she was a trained specialist for the Atlesian Army, which had high standards regarding physical health, he imagined that she can do about 150 before breaking a sweat. She had always been strong, even when they were children. There was a time, long ago, when he looked up to her as almost like this superhuman figure. But as he grew older, he learned that his seemingly flawless sister was just as human as anyone else; especially after she decided to become a specialist rather than a normal huntress. That was the moment, he realized, when he began to resent her.

"100!"

As he declared his final push-up for the day, Whitley Schnee sat down on his butt, took a deep breath and checked his pulse. It was racing. As he had hoped, he had been able to work himself up and push himself beyond his limits. It was all thanks to the exercise routine that Yinsen had taught him. It was fairly simple, but yielded outstanding results. Since there was no exercise equipment in the cave, the old doctor had instructed the young man rely on basic calisthenics. The workout plan that the old Faunus planned was as followed: 100 body rows, 100 squats, 100 push-ups, and to jog in place for the equivalent of 10 kilometers. The plan called for him to train every day. It took him a month before he could push 75 without getting exhausted.

 _I wonder how many days have passed._ Whitley couldn't help but think. _Then again, I lost count after the first few days._

As he thought about that particular fact, he idly rubbed his fingers against the palms of his hands. He felt all the cuts and calluses he had accumulated in his time here, a record of his time spent in forced service as a mechanic for his captors. He honestly had never imagined that he would have gained such scars in his lifetime, considering he spent most of it directing people with tools or having someone else handle the more dangerous parts of his projects. He had thought such work was beneath him. Not anymore, as he now felt immense pride in being a grease monkey.

"Taking a breather, are we?" He heard Yinsen ask. He looked over at the doctor, who was sitting at a table, working on a circuit board meant for use in their secret project.

Whitley chuckled good-naturedly. "Yeah, I just finished my routine for the day. Just give me a few minutes. After that, I'll take over."

"I don't think so, Mr. Schnee," Yinsen laughed, "First, you need to do something about that tangled mess you call hair."

The young man reached his hand up toward his head and pinched a small lock of his white hair, twisting it. His hair had been getting longer, the result of months without a proper haircut. He had not a single clue as to what it looked like, but Yinsen told him it made him look as though he had a perpetual case of bed hair, being unkempt and sticking out in many directions. Never had he cursed his lack of a mirror than now.

The young genius jokingly remarked, "Well, excuse me, it's not like I can be lucky and lose my hair like you have."

The old doctor chuckled and replied jovially. "Yeah, well, you know what the best part about being bald is? You can save money on shampoo, conditioner, combs, and even barbers."

"Heh, I guess you got me there."

Whitley was honestly surprised at himself, exchanging banter with Yinsen like that. When the doctor had revealed his Faunus status to him, the boy wasn't sure whether they would have worked together as well as they do now. If this had been months ago, he would have discarded the man's help without a care. He had spent his whole life being taught by his father that Faunus weren't to be trusted, and that line of thought nearly won over. But as he got to know the man, as well saw what happened here, he learned a truth that changed his whole perspective on his beliefs.

That truth being that Faunus are human; nothing separated the species other than a specific trait, so what warranted all the bigotry present in the world? They bleed the same blood, they share the same hopes and dreams, and they share 98% of the same DNA. Yet, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, Faunus are treated as less than human in nearly every part of the world. Atlas, the so-called home of progress, was where this mindset was at its worst. Looking back, he realized that he never saw any Faunus in the floating city, nor did any hold a high position in his family's company. Not that he thought about it, there weren't any Faunus in his class at ATI.

"Are you sure you're alright?" He heard Yinsen ask. "You look like you were spacing out there."

"Oh, sorry, I was just remembering certain things I overlooked, certain things I probably should've noticed..."

Yinsen knew the boy what the boy had been thinking about. In the past few months, whenever he wasn't building or working out, his mind would wander into the past, picking apart certain memories that he was now looking at with a new perspective. In some instances, he had done well, performing small acts of kindness that would have made his grandfather proud. But these were few and far in between. For the most part, he found that he had acted quite selfishly, often without conscience or considering the consequences his actions might have on others, which made his father proud.

Such as the time when he was nine; when he screwed over a classmate to get sole credit for a project. Or that time, two semesters ago, when he purposefully gave false data to a class rival during a coding experiment. That doesn't even compare to that time he helped mock a Faunus girl... days after her parents had died in a mining accident. Many would say that he was just a child and that he didn't know any better, but he knew full well what he had done. He was just another bully... like his father. He had acted as the son that his father always wanted. He had to repress the urge to frown when he thought that.

He had a lot to answer for.

"Are you sure you're alright?" the doctor asked again, "Because, frankly, I know the long-sullen silence thing is what all teenagers do, but it's starting to creep me out."

Whitley shook his head and apologized. "Sorry, I guess I'm still a little lightheaded from all that exercise."

The boy looked down at the circuit board and asked. "So, it's finally finished?"

Yinsen smiled, "Yep. With this little board, that little device you thought up will be finished."

With that, Yinsen pulled out a small black box, which he then slid the cover of off. He inserted the circuit board into a slow and then connected a few colored wires to it. He slid the cover back on, which closed with a satisfying click. It was finished.

Whitley smiled as he took the box and inspected it. "Finally, the last part of that survival kit is finished. I still can't believe I was able to miniaturize that Grimm Deterrent device."

Indeed, Whitley Schnee, after building the Arc Reactor and designing a new type of armor, had continued to innovate and build. Whenever one of those Grimm repelling sensors started to malfunction, his captors took him out to repair them. With every impromptu repair session, however, the Schnee took his time in analyzing how the machines functioned. In time, he had fully understood how they worked and reverse-engineered those to create his very own, only smaller. He'll need it for after the escape, for traversing the vast desert in search of rescue. Who knew how many Grimm stalked the sandy dunes of the Atreides desert?

For now, the small device will stay inside a survival kit that'll be strapped to inside of the armor's chest plate.

He placed the small box back on the table. He then told Yinsen. "Now, all we have to do is finish the helmet."

"Yes, and we have enough metal to spare."

Whitley nodded at Yinsen's comment. Though, in his opinion, it was a bit strange that they were able to accumulate such raw material in the first few weeks. Sure, Yinsen was able to coerce some of the Fangs he had helped patch up to sneak stuff in, but the fact that they had all this material was mindboggling. That's not to mention the lack of guards. For the past several weeks, the amount of time they spent under the watchful eyes of nosy extremists had been steadily decreasing right up to point where their shifts ended in the afternoon. This respite from security had given them more time to finish their project.

 _Honestly, it's like they're begging us to break out of this place._ The Schnee thought with an amused snort.

"What was that?" Yinsen asked, having heard the snort.

"Oh, it was nothing, just glad we've been so lucky... Say, are you sure you don't want me to build you your own kit?" Whitley asked the older man, "You're gonna need it if you want to see your family."

"Don't worry, I won't need it. Trust me... I will see my family again after this." The doctor replied with small smile, waving the suggestion off.

Whitley smiled at the doctor. Despite everything, Yinsen kept up a positive outlook. The boy wouldn't admit it, but he was honestly a little jealous of the old man's confidence. Such a defiant attitude in an oppressive environment was really inspiring.

"And you will, my friend, you will. If all goes according to plan, we'll all be out of this cave by tomorrow afternoon." Whitley said to the older man.

"Must you tempt fate like that?" Yinsen asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Okay, first, screw fate. Fate is a defeatist concept. Second, what's the worst they can do? Kill me?"

* * *

"I'M GONNA KILL THAT LITTLE BASTARD!"

Savin didn't even flinch at his comrade's boisterous exclamation, choosing to continue drinking his herbal tea. After taking a short sip, he calmly asked the temperamental Bull Faunus, "And what reason must we, this time?"

Vryolak, unamused by his long-time ally's nonchalant attitude, gave his reasons. "He hasn't been meeting his quotas! He was supposed to build guns, bombs, and rockets for us! Instead he makes modifications to our weapons and they're not even good ones! Hell, the ones he did promise us he claimed could be built in weeks, but it's been months!"

"He is but one boy. He is working with the bare minimum, and you're expecting an output greater than what he can generate. Do you honestly expect him to build an entire tank in one month?"

"No, but at the very least, he could've built something that can obliterate a tank!" Vryolak snapped, banging his fists on the table.

"Then what do you propose we do about it?" The snake Faunus asked. He finished his tea and then spoke again. "Our supplies are limited, even with our new partnership with A.I.M., and we barely have enough resources to construct new weapons. In my opinion, Mr. Schnee has been nothing but productive, given what he is working with."

"So it's a matter of resources, huh?" Vryolak dryly replied. "Oh, well, in that case, I guess I'll just drop by the nearest House Depot and ask for everything they have in stock. That should fix everything."

Savin blinked before facetiously asking. "I'm sorry, but was that supposed to be sarcastic?"

"Of course it was. What, did you think I was serious?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

The two men stared at each other, one with an obstinate and challenging glare and the other with an impassive and unemotional glance. Seconds passed before Vryolak spoke again, "You know, the Schnee-spawn's not the only one I've been having doubts about..."

"Whatever do you mean?" Savin asked with an even tone.

"Do you think I haven't noticed your behavior for the past few weeks? You've been spending too much time in your quarters, you're sending people out on more patrols, and there's also the fact you haven't assigned guards to watch over Yinsen and Schnee in a while." Vryolak elaborated, listing off all the peculiarities he had witnessed.

Savin was unmoved as he explained away. "I fail to see how such activities are grounds for suspicion. I've been staying in my quarters because I've been coordinating the outposts outside our camp. I've received reports that bandit tribes have been looking to gain a foothold in our territory, so I sent out more patrols to see if this were true. As for the guards, it's been my experience that people tend to be more productive when they don't have a gun pointed at them."

"Yeah, well, it's just you've been far more lax in our treatment of the boy."

"As I said, it's to make sure Mr. Schnee can work in a safe environment, well, about as safe as he can be in his situation. Besides, I let you have your fun with the other prisoners, isn't it fair that you extend that same courtesy to me?"

Vryolak clenched his teeth as he considered his old friend's words. On the one hand, he brought up many legitimate points. But on the other, he can't help but feel that Savin was undermining him out of spite. He had a feeling that he knew what the reason was. He then turned to the Snake Faunus and asked calmly.

"Are you still mad about Gulmira?"

Savin looked to his friend. Despite his expression not changing, Vryolak was able to detect a hint of disappointment in the man's steely blue eyes. That sentiment was confirmed by the man's next words.

"It served no purpose, what you did in Gulmira." He began before saying with a surprisingly indignant tone, "We had Yinsen, who came of his own volition. But what you did to his family, it was pointless. It was just barbarism for barbarity's sake."

Vryolak chose to defend himself, "It was for the greater good of Faunuskind. Corruption like that had to be culled before it infected our people."

Savin chose not to comment, having heard that sentence more times than he cared to count. No matter how many times they discussed the incident, it became quite apparent that his comrade will never change his mind nor express remorse. It was just another in recently growing string of disagreements between the two men. A string that was beginning to fray, and all it took was one more incident to snap it in half.

The two longtime comrades stared each other down, wondering what the other was thinking. The tense confrontation was cut short by the sudden ringing of a cellular phone, very phone that their mysterious supporter, Mr. X, had given to them for their correspondence. Vryolak pulled out the phone and answered the call, albeit with trepidation.

He spoke into the receiver, "Hello?"

" **Good day, Mr. Vryolak. My apologies for the long wait. I had to cover many tracks while securing a release for your young charge. Speaking of whom, I can assume that young Whitley hasn't suffered any harm while under your care?"** Mr. X calmly asked.

The Bull Faunus replied, "Yes, sir. The young man is quite well."

" **That's pleasant to know. On to business, I am pleased to inform you that I've been able to negotiate a prisoner swap at a neutral location. In return for Whitley Schnee, you will receive three of your imprisoned comrades."**

"That's wonderful news, sir. Thank you!" Vryolak praised excitedly.

" **I'll text the time and coordinates to you immediately. Have a nice day, Mr. Vryolak."**

The call abruptly ended. Seconds later, the phone buzzed as a text received. Vryolak opened the text box, which revealed a set of coordinates as well as the date of the prisoner swap. Vryolak smirked as he walked over to the door. He called over a Passing Fang and ordered him to bring the Schnee to the interrogation room. The Fang gave his commander a crisp salute and left to complete his orders.

* * *

Whitley didn't struggle when the extremists placed a bag over his head. He didn't even resist when they dragged him by his arms and marched him through the caverns, for what seemed like the hundredth time. It had become a routine for him. Plus, it let them think that he had finally surrendered to his fate. In their eyes, he was just a broken young man who had had finally succumbed to the hopelessness of his situation. In reality, he was defiant and determined, memorizing the layout of the cave by counting the number of steps and turns they make. He has already mapped out the route leading to the exit, the various barracks, and even where Vryolak and Savin had made their quarters.

But he had yet to learn where they were keeping the other prisoners. In all the times he'd been led through the labyrinthine complex, either to repair something or to endure another drawn-out rant from Vryolak, he had not once been shown where his fellow hostages were held.

After a few minutes of marching, he was forcibly shoved into a chair and the bag was pulled from his head, granting him the ability to see his surroundings. He saw that he was now seated at a table and, rather unsurprisingly, standing opposite of him were Vryolak and Savin. As before, Vryolak regarded him with a gaze that was equal parts disgust and anger. Savin, on the other hand, just looked upon with an expression that held no emotion whatsoever.

"Vryolak, Savin, to what do I owe this unexpected meeting?" Whitley mirthlessly asked.

Vryolak simply growled and looked away, not even bothering to acknowledge the boy's question. Savin, in contrast, kept his cold eyes focused upon the boy and calmly told him. "There has been a development regarding your stay here, Mr. Schnee."

"Let me guess, you're going to move me into the penthouse suite, with a view of the pool?" The boy sarcastically asked.

For the first time since he arrived, Whitley heard Savin chuckle. The snake-faunus' laughter was both restrained and followed a set rhythmic pattern. In the periphery of his vision, he saw that Vryolak was just as surprised as he was. It only scared the boy with how unnaturally detached and clinical the Snake-Faunus' laughter sounded. After his laughter had died down, the man reassumed his unnervingly placid demeanor and spoke. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Schnee. A colleague of ours has informed us that the Atlesian Military have agreed to a prisoner swap. We trade you in for some of our captured subordinates; your life for theirs. A fair trade, wouldn't you say?"

Despite his shock and relief, the youngest Schnee kept himself composed and facetiously remarked. "Oh, yes, I am absolutely ecstatic. Truly, this is the deal of the century."

"You don't sound excited. I'd have thought you'd be leaping in joy at the prospect of your freedom."

"What about the others? The other prisoners you're holding. What happens to them?"

It was Vryolak that chose to respond. "What about _them_?"

The Bull Faunus approached the table and slammed his palms on it. The man's red eyes glared viciously at him, threatening him with violence if he pressed the issue further. Whitley shook slightly from the unexpected action, but it didn't cow him into submission. If this had been two months ago, he would've buckled under the man's intimidating gaze. But that was the old Whitley Schnee. The Whitley sitting at the table was hardened and desensitized, having witnessed death and cruelty that would've broken others his age.

"What happens to the other prisoners?" He repeated, nonplussed and unafraid of Vryolak.

"What do you care?" Vryolak asked incredulously, "You're the one getting the one-way ticket to freedom. If anything, you should be grateful we're letting you go."

Whitley grit his teeth as his blood began to boil, thinking, _Grateful? They psychologically torment me for two months, make me watch as they killed and tortured people if I did something wrong, and they expect me to be GRATEFUL?!_

Vryolak saw the boy's frustration and smirked. "Oh, did I touch a nerve? What's wrong, Schnee, you feeling bad leaving all those little people behind?"

The Schnee tightened his fists as the man continued, "Wait-wait-wait hold the phone! Don't tell me _you_ actually feel _sorry_ for those soldiers and traitors. Has little Shitley grown a conscience?"

"Vryolak, that'll be enough." Savin spoke, but his comrade ignored him.

Savin's words had no effect, as Whitley rose to the bait, shouting, "That's funny coming from you; Where do you get off mocking my morals when you're the one starving and torturing your own people?!"

" _My_ people," Vryolak spat the words with disgust, "Those _people_ are traitors to their own race, corrupting Faunuskind with their filth! They betray our people by cavorting with humans, the very vermin that have sought our extermination throughout known history!"

Savin spoke up again, "Really, we can conduct ourselves civilly if-"

"So your solution is to fight hate with more hate?! Yeah, some humans can be complete bastards, even monsters, but that doesn't mean you should judge the innocent many for the acts of a vile few! Hell, humans have done as much bad to each other, too. My gods, where is your empathy?!"

Vryolak grit his teeth furiously. The boys words sounded a little too much like a certain doctor's, and it grated his nerves. He then roared, "EMPATHY? You, the son of Jacques Schnee, are really going to sit there and ask me about Empathy! Where was the human's empathy when my ancestors were carted off and sold into slavery in Mistral! Where was it when the Mantlian Fascists sent them to the camps! Where was their vaunted empathy when they lynched my father, or when they raped my sister! What about when the Watchdogs and FOH started executing my people in broad daylight?! Tell me, Schnee, fucking tell me, where were all the good humans when these things happened?!"

Whitley buckled under the virulent rage rolling of the Bull Faunus, unable to even give a retort. He knew the Bull Faunus was temperamental, but never did he imagine he would see him act like this. He was at a loss for words.

Vryolak saw this and drove the final nail in, "Where were those "good" humans? They were off on the sidelines, letting the vile few do whatever they want. But not anymore, so long I draw breath; I will fight for the greater good of Faunus everywhere!"

"Well, I fail to see how brainwashing starving Faunus is for the so-called greater good." Whitley rhetorically asked, having found his courage again.

Vryolak calmly replied, "Some sacrifices have to be made for victory. When the next war comes, and after we win it, history will vindicate us."

Upon hearing that sentence, it suddenly dawned on Schnee what his captor's aims were.

"Oh, my gods," He began, "This isn't about equality or claiming Khan's throne, you're trying to restart the Faunus War."

Vryolak smirked and told him, "Yes. And this time, there'll be a winner."

"Miklos, that's enough! Your temper tantrum ends right now!" Savin scolded harshly with narrowed eyebrows, surprising both his comrade and captive by the sudden emotion.

Vryolak scoffed and left the room, but not before sending the Schnee a nasty glare, which the boy reciprocated with equal intensity. The Muscle-bound Bull Faunus left the room with a violent spring in his step. Whitley turned his gaze back to Savin, who had nursed his features into the same serene and emotionally void face he was known for.

"I apologize on behalf of my colleague. He sometimes gets rather... obstinate, whenever he riles him up." The Snake-Faunus told the boy, again with the same clinical tone he had long since become associated with.

Whitley suppressed the urge to glare at the man. _Obstinate, you say? Try "absolutely off-the-walls livid"! Seriously, it felt he was going to bite my head off!_

"But what I said was true, Mr. Schnee. Your kingdom's military has agreed to a prisoner exchange. Regardless of how you feel about the circumstances, you will be taken to a neutral meeting place and you'll be traded for our imprisoned comrades."

The Schnee finally chose to glare at the man, whom paid him no mind.

"You leave within a week." Savin signaled the guards and ordered them, "Please escort Mr. Schnee back to his quarters."

The guards wasted no time in seizing the boy, who didn't even resist. They place a knapsack over his head once more and led him away without trouble. Once they were away, Savin rose from his seat and turned to the Fang standing to his right.

"Inform the others that our time table has accelerated." He said, "We leave at the crack of dawn."

The Fang nodded and went on his way, to inform his compatriots that the moment they have waited for had arrived. As soon as he was alone, Savin did something that he had not done in years. He smirked.

 _All according to plan,_ He thought victoriously.

* * *

"You're joking."

"I wish I were, but I'm not. I'll be gone in a week."

"Does this change anything?"

"No. It changes nothing." Whitley said before adding, "In fact, this might just be the moment we've been waiting for."

Yinsen stared at the boy as though he had grown a second head. They may have been planning this escape for months, but to give up this one chance at freedom? He asked the Schnee, "Are you sure about that? I mean, this prisoner exchange is probably your best chance at making it out of this cave alive."

Whitley sighed and then replied, "I know. That whole exchange would be less dangerous that what we've been planning. But, it doesn't feel right, you know? Leaving all those people at the mercy of these bastards? I'd rather die now than live knowing I had a chance to save lives and did nothing."

Yinsen smiled at the Schnee's words. If he had been the same boy from two months, He'd probably have leapt with joy and accepted the proposition on the spot. But to hear what he had said and with such resolve showed that Whitley has come far since he arrived. Just when the old man thought the boy couldn't surprise even more.

"So, when do start assembling the armor?" He asked the boy.

"As soon as I finish the final part," Whitley replied before rolling up his sleeves. "I'll start once I finished "repairing" this rifle. Wouldn't want our gracious hosts to get suspicious, do we?"

"No, we wouldn't want that." Yinsen said with a sly grin.

All through the afternoon and well into the evening, the two geniuses labored away at finishing the task assigned to them by their captors. But once the sun outside began to set, and the Guards assigned to them had left, they quickly began the final preparations for their plan. Yinsen pulled out the scattered pieces of the armor, which they had hidden in various spots around the cave, and laid them out on a table. He then set about putting together the endoskeleton that as Whitley worked upon the final piece of the armor, clasping a thick plate of metal with a pair of heat-resistant tongs.

All through the evening, Whitley worked the furnace, tempering the metal piece and hammering away at it. Finally, just as it reached midnight, he took one final appraising look at the piece. To his immense satisfaction, it was complete. He then dunked the still-glowing metal into a pot of cooling water. He pulled it out minutes later and brought it over to Yinsen's table.

The doctor, who had been attaching the circuit board that connected all the various buttons and switches on the armor, looked up from his work to see what Whitley had placed upon the table. Lying upon the desk, with steam still rolling off of it, was a metal facemask. Even on paper, the look of the mask was very haunting. It was as though a metal face was glaring viciously at him, looking at him with promises of pain.

"Alright, let's get to work." Whitley told the man.

The duo went about assembling the armor. All through the early hours of the morning, they worked; welding plates together, screwing in bolts, and lining the various armor pieces with wiring that controlled the various makeshift weapons built into the design. Once the pieces of the armor were fully formed, Whitley donned a set of flame retardant coveralls. Then, with the aid of Yinsen, he wrapped his hands in a thin layer of gauze, to reduce the risk of injury. He then put on a pair of flame retardant gloves, which they fastened onto his wrists using duct tape. This was followed by the young Schnee slipping on a pair of heat resistant boots. With the first layer of the armor completed, they moved on to the second stage of assembly.

The Schnee analyzed endoskeleton and found that it matched the specifications of his blueprints. From the hydraulics to the levers, everything was in tip-top shape. Satisfied, he began the process of securing his body within the metallic skeletal frame. First, he fastened the leg braces, bound together by bolts, wires, and a metal harness.

With the help of Yinsen, he put on the small metal chest harness which wrapped around the young boy's upper body like a shell. The Arc reactor was left exposed on the chest, so that Yinsen would plug the power cord into it to provide energy to the frame. Then there was the insertion of the boy's arms into their respective braces, which connected to the chest plate. This was followed by the donning of metal gauntlets, which were locked into the arm braces. Finally, the doctor connected the power cord into the Arc reactor.

"Alright, give it a try." The doctor told the boy.

Turning on his heel, the boy approached a nearby table. Upon its surface sat a ceramic mug, which he grasped with his right hand. There was a sharp mechanical whine as the boy tightened his grip on the mug, which then shattered under the pressure within several seconds. Satisfied, the boy flexed his fingers before forming a fist.

"Groovy," He said with a smirk, quoting the main character of an action B-movie he once saw. He had always wanted to say that line. He then frowned when he noticed that armored digits were moving too slowly.

"Most impressive, Mr. Schnee," Yinsen praised, honestly impressed by the display. The endoskeleton was indeed impressive. It exceeded even the work of an old friend from Mantle.

"Yeah... but it took about 5% of the reactor's power and there was also a bit of a time delay when it came to movement." Whitley calculated before speaking again, "which won't be a problem once we get the internal motor strapped on."

"You mean the giant fanny backpack?"

Whitley blinked, "I'm sorry, but _what_?"

"The giant fanny pack, you know the pack that you strap to your back that goes over your fanny?" The doctor explained as he pointed over to a large metal box with straps attached to it.

Whitley frowned, unamused. "It's an internal motor. A motor that's covered by a metal box, which, you know, makes it _internal_?"

"Well, honestly, it looks like a fanny pack." Yinsen pressed on, "I mean if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, then it's a fanny pack."

"It's a motor," The boy said with finality, "and it's time to put it on."

"Alright, alright, fine. Sheesh, maybe that friend of yours, Zeke, got a point. You really need to learn to take a joke."

Yinsen walked over to the table where the motor sat. He picked it up and then strolled behind the boy. He then slid the motor into place, locking it onto a rack on the back of a belt. It locked with a satisfied click. Whitley took over for the rest, sliding the straps past his arms and onto his shoulders. He secured the straps with two clamps situated on his chest.

"Yinsen, do the thing." Whitley ordered.

Yinsen nodded and pulled a long cord out of compartment on the motor. The doctor then plugged the cord into a small outlet located on the chest harness, which connected to the Arc reactor. As soon as the plug was inserted, a low whir of energy was heard as the motor came to life. Whitley brought his fist and flexed his fingers again. This time he was rewarded with the sight of nearly fluid movement as he wiggled the metal digits. He pulled a victorious fist pump.

"Good. With the motor running, it'll help control the output of energy from the reactor, while also allowing me a greater range of movement and strength without any dramatic expenditure..." Whitley explained with a growing smirk. He then turned to Yinsen and said, "or as my friend Zeke would say, and I'm directly quoting him here: You're gonna be a bad motherfuc-"

Yinsen coughed into his fist, cutting off the excited teenager before he could finish. The teen blushed when he realized what he was about to say. He knew if his grandmother was alive, she'd be laughing her head off right now. Apparently, much like her, he had quite the sailor's mouth.

"Sorry, just got a little excited." He apologized. "Okay, now that the motor is attached. It's time to put the metal plates on. Remember, we have to be extremely careful, considering the ordinance I built into them."

Yinsen nodded as he retrieved a metal boot. Their little project was running better than they had predicted. Once again, he was surprised by the sheer ingenuity of the youngest Schnee. He never thought he lived to see the day that a single teenager designed and built a full set of power armor, especially using nothing but boxes of scrap in a cave. It sounded like something out of those anime that his son watched, or those comics that he used to read when he was a child.

Truly, he was living in a strange time.

* * *

"Sir, wake up, something's happened!"

Awakening from slumber, Vryolak rose with an obnoxious yawn. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, before focusing on the scrub that dared rouse him from sleep. He wondered what was so important to wake him up at so early an hour. With an irritated tone, he asked his frantic subordinate. "What is it?"

"Captain Savin has deserted, sir! He took many of our comrades with him, appropriated the Bullheads and just flew off without a word!"

Vryolak's eyes widened from shock as he listened to the man. Savin had betrayed him. His oldest friend and comrade, a man whom he served with since the Faunus war, had just abandoned him. In hindsight, he saw all the signs that Savin was becoming dissatisfied with how he was running their operation. Especially after what happened in Gulmira, after they had captured Yinsen. He also knew the Snake-faunus didn't appreciate how he treated the Schnee, as well.

The man's shock turned to anger as he recalled. _Wait, shit, the Schnee!_

"Soldier, tell me, did Savin take the Schnee with him?" He urgently asked.

"We don't know, sir. We've sent a few guards to check. We'll know soon enough." The man replied.

Vryolak took a deep breath as he composed himself, which was a miracle in of itself. He thought over the recent developments. What did Savin hope to accomplish, deserting like that? They were all but excommunicated from the White Fang, they were on Atlas and Mistral's top 10 most wanted lists, and he doubted that A.I.M. would continue supporting him once they heard about this. Though, in all honesty, it was Mr. X he was truly afraid of. He remembered what his benefactor had done to that Khan loyalist. Just what would he do to him?

He shuddered in terror at the thought, which he was able to hide from his subordinate.

All in all, things were not looking good for his revolution.

"Alright, once we get word on the Schnee's status, we'll-"

 _KRA-KOOOOMMM!_

The room shook, causing small clumps of dirt to fall from the ceiling. A strange sound echoed in the distance, carrying itself throughout the tunnel, rousing extremists from their rest. Vryolak recognized that sound immediately. It was an explosion from improvised explosive device, the same kind that they had been planting out in the desert to ward off Grimm and other nosy intruders. Coincidentally, it was something that the Schnee had built...

"The little fucker's making his escape! Sound the alarm, I want everyone armed and ready for combat! Do not let the Schnee escape!" he roared at his subordinate, who saluted clumsily before running off to issue the command.

As his soldiers were roused into action, Vryolak cursed the gods above for his sudden turn in luck. Savin had betrayed him, taking many of his troops with him, and now the Schnee had the gall to try and escape, while also blowing his shit up?

* * *

"Holy shit, was that a _bomb_?!" Whitley cried as the dust settled.

"Did you rig the doors?" Yinsen asked as he waved some smoke away.

"Of course I didn't! We're supposed to have the element of surprise on our side!"

Yinsen said nothing as he resuming tightening the bolt on a shoulder plate. It came out of nowhere. One minute, he was securing pieces of metal armor onto the Schnee in silence, when suddenly there was a knock at the door. A voice called out to them, demanding they'd be let in. He and the Schnee kept silent, too shocked by the sudden turn of events. The shock quickly became fear as the Fangs unlocked the door. But just as the door opened, there was an incredible explosion from the outside. A wave of heated air, debris, and smoke rushed over them as they ducked to cover.

Whatever chances they had of surprising their captors was gone, much like the metal doors to their room. Yinsen quickly ran over to the now-opened entrance and saw that two Fangs had been killed in the explosion. No doubt Vryolak would blame this on them.

They picked up the pace in finishing the armor. Once it was done, Yinsen pulled out a small laptop. He then connected the computer to a small slot on the Chest plate, where a small processor was located. This processor served as the control for all the different weapons built into the armor. It was the final step.

"Alright, there should be a small progress bar on the screen. Do you see it?" Whitley's muffled yet metallic voice asked.

"Yes, it's on..." Yinsen looked at the small bar and frowned. "Oh, no, no, no..."

"What is it?"

"It says it'll take ten minutes for the program to download... we don't have enough time." Yinsen said in realization. He turned to face the armored youth and told him, "That explosion probably jolted them. They'll be her in a few minutes..."

The doctor frowned. They had come so close, only for the cruel hand of fate to pluck everything away. Without that control program, the young Schnee had no access to the various weapons built into the armor. There had to be something he can do to speed up the process, or at least to but some time for the download to finish. But what can he do?

The doctor looked over to the blasted entrance. In the distance, he can hear dozens of shuffling footsteps marching through the tunnels. The Fangs were coming. As he went over his available options, the few of which promised nothing but death for both he and his young friend, he caught a glimpse of the dead Fangs lying near the destroyed doors. Next to one of the bodies was an undamaged rifle. That was when a thought occurred to Yinsen, one that ultimately became a plan. After running through a few simulations in his mind, he came to the conclusion that the scenario promised the ultimate survival of the young Schnee, as well as his escape.

His mind made up, he looked over to Whitley with a resolute demeanor. The boy saw this through his mask and wondered what the Faunus doctor was planning.

"You need more time," The doctor began, "I'm gonna get you all the time you need."

"Wait, what do you mean- What are you doing?!" Whitley shouted in alarm as the man sprinted over to the terrorist's corpses.

He watched in horror as the Doctor, a man who lived by the Hippocratic Oath, whom had promised to never do harm, picked up a rifle and cocked it.

"We had a plan, stick to it! Stick to the plan-" Whitley's words were drowned out by the sound of gunfire. The doctor had aimed the gun into air and fired it, before running off to meet the incoming terrorists.

As the doctor ran off, boy desperately yelled out, "YINSEN!"

This did not dissuade the Faunus doctor from his suicidal action. A feeling of foreboding swelled within the Schnee's gut as the sounds of gunfire echoed, followed by the panicked cries of surprised terrorists, echoed in the distance. He looked over at the laptop and observed the progress bar as it filled up. It had only nine minutes to go.

He hoped he can get to the doctor before it was too late.

* * *

It was a satisfying feeling, Yinsen admitted to himself. It was immensely gratifying watching these criminals fearfully fleeing from him. To think that those who excelled at dealing death would be scared off by one who saved people from death. As he fired round after round into the air, the bullets either piercing solid or bouncing off them, their fear increased tenfold. While he may be holding a weapon, he was not going to shoot anybody. When he became a doctor, he swore an oath to never do harm and he fully intended to honor it, even if it killed him.

No matter what, he will die as himself. He will die a healer, not a killer. That conviction is what separated him from Faunus like Vryolak, Savin, and even Sienna Khan. That same conviction that won him the love of his wife and what made his children proud to be his. He was so close to seeing them again, of that he was sure of.

It was that same conviction is what compelled him to save young Whitley's life. He knew of the young boy by reputation. He had heard enough rumors and gossip to know that the young man was on the path to becoming another Jacques Schnee. When he had heard that Vryolak and Savin had captured the boy and that he was to operate on him, the Faunus was expecting to find a bigoted and spiteful clone of the SDC chairman. Instead, what he saw on the operating table was just a wounded boy, who seemed no different from his own son. After coming to know the Schnee, he can honestly say that doesn't regret saving his life.

But if he there was one that he deeply regretted, it would have to be the day he chose to help Vryolak and Savin, all those years ago. They were nothing but strangers to him all those years ago, just a pair of veterans of the recently-ended Faunus Revolution. Vryolak had been searching for a doctor to heal Savin, who had lost his right eye in battle. Despite being a newly graduated Doctor, he had built enough of reputation as a skilled surgeon, and they had heard about his groundbreaking research into artificial organs.

As a doctor, he had an obligation to help them, and as a Faunus, he felt compelled to help two men who had suffered fighting for their people's rights. Within a few weeks, he gave Savin an eye, which was a breakthrough in his research, and the two men thanked him and went on their way. Save for that huge breakthrough, he thought nothing much of the incident afterward. He was simply being a Good Samaritan.

That is, until about a week after their encounter, when he was visited by Agents from MSIS. They had asked him if he had seen Vryolak and Savin. Knowing the consequences of lying to kingdom agents, he told them that he had indeed met the two men, but he did not know their whereabouts. When he had asked why they were searching for them, they told him something that shook him to his core.

Vryolak and Savin, as it happened, were wanted by both Atlas and Mistral for war crimes. They were members of the dreaded Orwell Unit, a group of Faunus soldiers that specialized in "Unconventional Suppression Tactics", which was a fancy way of saying that they essentially attacked human settlements, civilians mostly. Suffice to say, the knowledge that he had helped war criminals filled him with shame and disgust. After that, out of fear, he left his well-paying job at the hospital, ceased his research, and moved back to his hometown Gulmira.

Then, years later, right as he was getting ready for another day at the village clinic, his family received visitors. They had gained some years in their appearance, but he recognized them as the two men he had had helped years earlier. They weren't alone either, as there were various masked people with them, whom just so happened to be carrying guns. He doubted they came for a check-up.

Instead, they took from his family. They stole him from his dear Cho, the kindest and most beautiful woman he had ever met, and they took him from their children. His son, Huang, was barely on the cusp of adulthood and His little baby girl, Toni, wasn't even four years old yet. He wanted to be at home, helping Huang with his homework, teaching Toni to read, and sharing another beautiful evening with Cho. Vryolak and Savin took those things from him. Savin even had the nerve to steal something from his home.

Yinsen tightened his hold on the weapon as continued his journey through the tunnels. In the distance, he noticed a bright light. He was nearing the cave entrance. He roared furiously and charged forward. He turned a corner. His courage died when he saw what was waiting for him. Near the large opening of the cave, were several Fangs surrounding his position, their weapons aimed point-blank at them. Vryolak stood front and center, his left hand gripping a pistol.

Vryolak addressed the doctor, "I let you live and _this_ is how you repay me?"

"You call _this_ living?" Yinsen retorted defiantly.

The two stared each other down. Vryolak saw the gun in Yinsen's hands and smirked. He then told the doctor with a dismissive tone, "Drop the gun, Doc. We both know you're not going to shoot me."

Yinsen did not comply. He aimed his weapon at Vryolak. The man frowned when he saw this until he noticed something.

Yinsen's fingers were shaking. Most of all, He didn't even have a finger on the trigger. Vryolak raised his pistol and aimed it at the doctor. He the mockingly said, "Funny, isn't it? With the scalpel, you're firm and steady. But with the trigger of a gun, you're unwilling and shaky."

Yinsen said nothing as he continued to aim his weapon.

"Fortunately for me, I have no such problems." Vryolak remarked.

He then pulled the trigger.

 _BANG!_

Yinsen felt a sharp pain in his stomach, which caused him to lurch over and clutch his stomach, causing him to drop his weapon. He had never felt such pain in his life. It felt like it burned but was also freezing, which is when he felt a viscous liquid stain his hands. It felt like he was suffocating while also drowning, as he was running out of breath while trying to hold back his blood from building up. He started to lose his footing and stumbled about. His strength finally gave in as he collapsed onto a pile of rice bags.

"It's a shame we couldn't resolve this peacefully, Doc. It's really tearing me up inside." Vryolak said with a condescending tone.

He then turned to his troops and barked out, "Alright, I want most of you to head outside and wait for further orders. The rest of you will separate into four-person squads and take positions in the tunnels. Send a scout party ahead to flush out that little prick."

The Fangs nodded and carried out their orders. The bulk of the force pulled back, regrouping in the camp outside of the cave. The few that remained separate into squads, intent on following their general's orders to the letter, filing into the tunnels. But just as the last group was about to enter the tunnels, they were stopped by Vryolak.

"Hold on," He ordered them before speaking again, "I've got an assignment for you all."

* * *

All through the tunnels, the sound of marching boots echoed. Squads of fangs scampered through the endless maze, searching for advantageous positions. Another squad, with a mission assigned to them by their general, entered the farthest tunnel. The scouting party pushed forward, heading for the very important prisoner's room, to bring out the son of their most hated enemy.

Within said room, the lights dimmed as the generator began to die out. A single laptop, fully charged, continued to run. On the screen was a single progress bar, which was nearly filled up. Within seconds, the bar was fully filled, ending the programming update it had been running. The lights died as the sound of a motor coming to life roared, followed by the grinding of gears.

In the darkness, a single light shone.

* * *

The first thing that the Fangs noticed were the metal doors that were hanging off their hinges, bent and warped beyond hope of repair, the aftereffect of the makeshift bomb that the prisoners had used. Before the destroyed entrance lay the two broken and smoking corpses of the Guards Vryolak had sent. One of the bodies was missing their weapon, which had been appropriated by Yinsen. Fortunately for them, the doctor had been too much of a coward to aim it at anyone.

The second thing they noticed was the prisoner's holding cell. The large and cavernous room was dark, almost pitch-black. They barely made out the outlines of the various tools and stations within. Had the prisoners done something to kill the power? Was this an ambush? Where was the Schnee hiding? All these questions and more raced through the minds of the extremists.

"One of us should scout ahead." A man with antlers suggested.

A woman with lynx ears cautiously asked, "But which one of us?"

"I'll check," Said their tiger-tailed comrade, "You two stay here. If I'm not back in two minutes, get back-up."

Tiger-Tail then held up his rifle and advanced into the darkness, leaving his compatriots in the dimly lit tunnel. They watched as their comrade's form was slowly enveloped by the darkness, before disappearing altogether. Though they can't see him, they can still hear him, as heavy footsteps reverberated through the silent tunnel. He was moving deftly through the room, unimpeded by the various obstacles, thanks to the night vision that all Faunus share.

"Have you found the Schnee?" Lynx-Ears loudly asked.

"No, not yet, All I see are a bunch of tools on the ground and-" They hear his voice cut off before speaking again. "Wait, I see something glowing, over in the corner. I'm gonna go check it out."

They hear his slow and heavy footsteps as they stood their ground, with each step becoming an echo as the man moved farther away from their position. The echoing steps stopped after a few seconds. Then they heard Tiger-Tail report from a considerable distance, "It's just a lit-up computer. No, wait, something's reflecting- AAUGH!"

Antler-Head and Lynx-Ears watched in horror as Tiger-Tail flew through the air, the panicking man firing his rife wildly, the sparks of gunfire giving them the trajectory of his flight. They heard the sound of his body impacting upon the stone floor, more than a few feet away from where he was thrown. Something had tossed him clear to the other side of the room. The two Fangs refrained from firing their weapons into the room, not wanting to risk shooting their comrade.

Lynx-Ears turned to her antlered comrade and frighteningly asked. "What the hell was that?!"

Antler-Head could only shake his head at the question. Suddenly, they heard what sounded like grinding gears and saw a blinding light. Antler-Head caught the full brunt of the light, blinding him and causing him to drop his weapon to cover his eyes. As he screamed in fright, he was forcefully shoved into the stone walls of the tunnel by a powerful metallic arm.

Lynx-Ears, having averted her eyes just in time, locked them on a hulking, shadowy figure and promptly fired her rifle at it. The bullets sparked upon impact, giving her brief glimpses of a metallic grey body. It looked like a giant metal man to her. Her opponent marched up to her, unimpeded by the rapid fire, and punched her in the stomach, hurtling her a few feet away and onto her back. She coughed up blood as she felt a sharp pain in her stomach. The last thing she saw, before the she fell unconscious, were the dark and soulless eyes of a metal face glaring at her.

The metal man rose, checked its surroundings and then strode off. It turned a corner, finding another trio of Fangs. The Faunus stood and stared at the metal behemoth in shock. Shock quickly gave way to fury as they fired their weapons, hoping to bring it down before it brought them down. The figure jumped back, taking cover behind the corner. Dust kicked up and sparks ignited as metal bullets impacted upon solid rock.

Eventually the magazines were spent, forcing the Faunus to charge their opponent's position. One of the extremists ran faster than his comrades, charging with all the speed of a cheetah, despite being a gopher Faunus. But as he rushed the figure's position, a strong, metal arm shot out, which his face collided with. The gopher spun downward onto the ground, his face broken and eating dirt.

His comrades did not slow their charge. Knowing that his recent tactic will not work again, the figure leapt from behind his cover, meeting his newest opponents head-on. He swept his arm out, only for the Fangs to duck beneath the blow. Having used much of their ammunition, they resorted to using their rifles as clubs, which they promptly beat upon their prey. But the metal man stood tall and undeterred, not even budging with each successive hit.

It was then that the metal man reached out and gripped the head of the Fang facing him, the man letting out a muffled scream. He dropped his rifle and started banging his fists on the arm gripping his face. Unimpressed, the metal man lifted the struggling criminal by his face, with the Faunus' legs kicking the air. The fang behind the metal man saw this and panicked, running to his comrade's aid. Capitalizing on this, the metal man slammed the fang in his grasp against the other, knocking both out. He released his grip and the Faunus fell to the ground in a heap, next to his unconscious comrade.

The metal pushed forward, emboldened by his previous victories. He came across a larger group of extremists, who fled in terror, knowing what he had done to their comrades. Some fired their rifles indiscriminately as they fled, hitting the ground and walls of the tunnel, and the metal menace that was slowly encroaching upon them. They eventually reached one of the metal gate doors that separated the tunnels into sections. The Fangs fled through the open gates and proceeded to shut them. However, they noticed too late that one of their comrades lagged behind, with the metal monster hot on his heels. Not risking the chance of letting the armored escapee pass through, they shut the gates on their doomed comrade.

They heard the abandoned Fang cried out, "No, you bastards!"

They heard as he rushed the metal gates and banged his fists upon them. As he did this, he shouted in a fearful and panicking voice. "Let me in, it's coming! IT'S COMING!"

The man's speech quickly became an incoherent mess of hateful curses and desperate pleading as the sound of thunderous footsteps drew nearer. With each step, the man's cries became even more frantic and the banging on the walls more rapid and violent. They imagined that the man's hands were probably bleeding at this point. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped, followed by equally quick silencing of the desperate man's cries and banging fists. An uncomfortable silence fell on the Fangs as they stared at the gates. They raised their rifles, keeping a firm but shaking grip on them as they aimed their sights at the gate.

 _CLANG!_

The sound of fists striking metal had returned. But they did not belong to the doomed Fang on the other side of the gate. No, these new fists were strong, maybe stronger than steel, and struck with all the force of a sledgehammer. They knew this for they had seen a dent appear on the gate's surface, one that was nearly the size of a human fist. The Fangs, despite their fear, stayed at their positions.

 _CLANG!_

A second fist-sized dent appeared. Whatever was on the other side of the gate had enough strength to pierce metal, and it didn't even have Aura. The Fangs shook in their boots as images of what those fists might do to flesh and bone ran through their minds. The grips on their weapons wavered, but they held their position, albeit with shaking legs. This thing might have the strength of Vryolak, but they doubt it had his cruelty. They were stuck between what seemed like uncertain death, while their only escape route led to what they knew to be certain death.

 _CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!_

The banging on the gate was now more rapid and brutal, with various dents pushing outward. Whatever bravery left in these frightened fangs vanished, as some bolted away from the door. The few that remained were too terrified beyond rational thought to even consider running away. This brief lapse in mental capacity proved to be their undoing, as the metal doors flew out, the force of their flight knocking out some of the extremists in their trajectory. The metal man disregarded these unconscious extremists, not even sparing a glance as he marched past them.

At a corner, the metal behemoth heard the sounds of rapidly approaching footsteps, doubtlessly more Fangs rushing to join their comrades at the cave's entrance. The metal man reeled his fist back and hoping to catch the terrorists by surprise, punched the stone wall just as the fangs came within his periphery. The Fangs in the front fell back in surprise, their eyes stung by the dust of crumbled granite. In spite of that, they picked themselves up and continued their retreat, not wanting to risk falling within their attackers grasp. The mob of Faunus quickly vacated the area, save for one.

This one extremist, seeing the metal man in such a vulnerable position, decided that it was the opportune time to finish him off. But most of all, he saw this as his chance to move up the ranks. He reasoned that after killing the metal monster that had killed so many of his fellow Fangs, Vryolak would be so impressed that he'd make him his new number two. The Minotaur was going to need one if the rumors of Savin's desertion were true. The loss of the Schnee-spawn will set them back, but at least they'll be rid of one less human. With a bloodthirsty smile, he pulled his pistol from his holster. He gripped the firearm with both hands and aimed it at the back of the monster's chrome dome of a head. He pulled the firing pin back, savored his moment of genius, and pulled the trigger.

 _BANG-KRE-SHRIRK!_

The bullet bounced off the metal dome and hit the opportunistic Fang in his right shoulder, causing him to fall while grasping his wound. Having felt the vibrations of the rebounding bullet, the metal man turned its head and looked down at the wounded extremist. He tilted his head incredulously, as though sending a confused glare at the crying and terrified man.

With a final tug, metal man pulled its fist out of the hole. Using both of its hands, he pulled the injured Fang to his feet, before shoving him into the granite walls of the tunnels. He then intensified his grip on the man's bleeding wound, causing a jolt of pain to course through the man's body. He then demanded in a metallic and angered growl, "Where are the prisoners?!"

Terrified beyond belief at the emotionless face of his metallic captor, the Fang whimpered despite the pain. "Th-th-they're in the holding cells... The east tunnel, just walk and turn a corner... oh, gods, please don't kill me!"

The metal man turned his head in the direction of the path the Fang told him to take. Satisfied, He returned his gaze back on the man, who flinched. It then lowly intoned, "If I find out you're lying, I'll come back and break the other one."

The Fang blinked and asked, "The other wha- AUGH!"

The metal man kicked his captive's right leg, snapping the man's tibia and fibula. The terrorist fell on his side, hands grasping his broken leg, crying out and cursing out his attacker with every swear known on Remnant. But the metal man paid him no mind, walking up the tunnel and turning a corner as instructed. To his immense satisfaction, the Fang he interrogated had been telling the truth as he found another tunnel. He marched forth, ready to beat down more of the extremists and free the prisoners.

From behind his metal mask, Whitley Schnee smiled. He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the looks of fear on the Fangs. After two months of torment, witnessing atrocities committed upon both humans and Faunus by these so-called "Freedom Fighters", he was now exacting righteous justice upon them. Justice not just for him, but for all of the lives these monsters had destroyed.

His resolve steeled, Whitley marched further down into the tunnel. But as he edged closer to the area where the prisoners were being held, a strange and very pungent odor began to assault his senses. It almost smelled like meat cooking over an open fire, meshed together with burning gasoline. He had smelt cooking meat before, back at home when the Kitchen staff prepared dinner. As for the gasoline, he had only smelt it once before in his life, during a lab experiment. But this smell, this horrid combination of odors, he recognized it immediately, for he first came into contact with it during his abduction

It was the smell of death.

Behind his metal mask, the young heir's blood ran cold. He quickly hastened his pace, going from an aggressive march to a desperate sprint. As he neared the end of the tunnel, the smell intensified. He fought the urge to vomit as his nasal passages were attacked by smells fouler than lit gasoline. Finally, he reached the end of the east tunnel, coming into contact with sealed metal door. Using all of his armor-enhanced strength, he kicked the metal door, securing it from its hinges and letting it fall to the ground. A sudden draft of air pushed out, flames nearly licking his armored body and smoke flying overhead.

In spite of the danger, the young man entered the room. What he saw shook him to his core.

Scattered all over the burning holding area, trapped in glowing cells or shackled to stone walls, were burnt, blackened corpses. Most of these bodies had been burnt so horribly beyond recognition that he can't even tell which were human or Faunus. A small part of him hoped that the lack of identifiable Faunus features meant that there were survivors. Those hopes were dashed once he made out antlers and horns on some of the corpses. The harsh reality finally set in for the boy.

Vryolak and Savin had murdered their prisoners. They had burnt every single one of them to death, even if half of them were Faunus.

As the fires lashed the air, another one was lit within the young Schnee. A single spark ignited within him, fueled by the anger he felt toward his captors and kindled by the fury over their many travesties. That single spark soon grew into a controlled flame, one that fueled his defiance against the Fangs. But after seeing this, this utter crime against life, the flame erupted into an inferno, an all-consuming rage.

Whitley escaped the burning room and continued on toward the entrance of the cave. He swore, on his dying breath, that he will not let these people's deaths be in vain.

* * *

Having heard the sounds of a pitched battle from within the tunnels, Vryolak wondered what was happening to his troops. It had been close to thirty minutes since he sent them into the tunnels and none have yet to report in. From what he was able to gather from radio chatter, his Fangs had come into contact with a "Metal Monster". At first, he wondered whether the stress of their situation had broken their minds. That doubt was cast aside as the gunfire and screams drew nearer to his position, followed by what sounded like thunder in the distance.

Something was coming, alright, something big and strong. Whatever it was, monster or not, was making mincemeat of his soldiers. The Bull Faunus sat down upon a wooden crate and waited for his mysterious opponent to come. He pulled out his pistol and began to reload.

A sudden gasp of air drew his attention to his left. He remarked with a surprised tone, "Holy Shit. you're still alive, Yinsen?"

Despite the pain, Yinsen spat out blood and grounded out through bloodied teeth. "You sound disappointed."

Vryolak chuckled and replied, "Disappointed? Far from it, I'm actually impressed you've made it this far. You're a tougher bastard than I gave you credit for, doc."

"Pardon me if I don't feel flattered."

"Take it however you want," Vryolak shrugged as he loaded another bullet into the magazine. "It doesn't matter, though. With all the blood you lost, I doubt you're long for this world."

"The same can be said about you."

Vryolak ceased with the reloading and regarded the wounded doctor with an unworried glance. He then asked with an uncaring tone, "What makes you say that?"

Yinsen let out a subdued laugh and replied, "Because _he's_ coming."

"Oh, really, who's coming?"

The doctor replied resolutely, "The Schnee."

It was then that Vryolak let out a hearty laugh. After everything that's happened today, he really needed a pick-me-up. It honestly sounded like a joke to him. He should be scared of Whitley Schnee, a boy with no real combat experience and had all the nerve of a submissive coward? It was a real knee-slapper.

The laughter ceased when he heard the sounds of thunderous footsteps. He also heard what sounded like grinding gears, to his confusion. He looked to the tunnel entrance and saw a bright light in the distance, which was steadily increasing in size. He focused his eyes on the light, only to make out the outline of a tall and stocky figure. Within seconds, the mysterious figure revealed itself.

What he saw was an impressive sight. The newcomer had Gunmetal grey armor, with a stocky build that made them resemble more a metallic gorilla. He noticed that the armor had a few gaps, revealing the wearers working fatigues. The gauntlets were a little oversized, as though they had small compartments. He also noticed what looked like a large metal box secured to the armor's lower back, over which was a firmly-secured leather pack that seemed to be a parachute. But what struck him the most was the figures helmet. It was round and the facemask resembled a glaring face.

He addressed the figure, "Is it you underneath that armor, Schnee?"

The armored figure didn't reply, opting to stay silent as it observed Vryolak. The Bull Faunus clicked his tongue as he loaded the magazine into his pistol. He then said, "Don't bother trying to hide it, I know it's you, brat."

"Why did you do it?" Whitley asked, his voice slightly muffled by the mask, yet sounding quite metallic.

Vryolak blinked innocently, "Did what?"

The young man tightened his armored fists, "Why did you murder all those people?!"

"Oh, you mean the prisoners!" Vryolak declared in realization, "No, no, no, you've got it all wrong. Yes, I gave the order to burn them, but _you're_ the one who murdered them."

Vryolak smirked viciously when he noticed the Schnee shaking in his armor. It seemed as the boy was getting riled up, just as the man wanted. He was in full control of the situation. So what if the kid had a fancy set of armor, he was still the same little weakling he captured months ago and he was going to mess him up. He then raised his pistol and aimed at the armored teen's chest.

He fired a shot, only for the bullet to have no effect on the armor. He could see where it had made contact, having left a small dent in its wake. He then remarked, "Thick armor. That's annoying."

He then holstered his pistol and went into a boxing stance. He held his arms up to his face and arrogantly remarked, "I don't need a gun to finish a little bitch like you off."

Without a warning, Vryolak charged Whitley with a vicious roar, acting much like the animal from which his Faunus characteristics drew from. Surprised by the man's speed, the armored teen failed to act, falling to the ground with the heavier man on top of him. That's when he felt a shifting weight on his chest and he saw Vryolak banging his fists on both sides of his helmet. Whitley winced as a sharp ringing reverberated through his helmet, slightly disorientating him. In anger, he took his right arm, which had been lying prone, and punched the side of Vryolak's stomach.

Vryolak let out a pained grunt as he rolled on to his side, clutching his injury with one of his hands. That punch was far stronger than he thought; it almost felt like he had been jabbed by a brick. He quickly rolled away from the armored Schnee and shot himself to his feet, albeit still clutching his wound. He looked and saw, much to his shock that a small, steadily expanding splotch of red appear through his clothes. He kept his distance as the armored pain-in-his-ass rose to his feet. He was not going let this little bastard beat him like some punk.

Whitley, for his part, observed his opponent. From how he was clutching his bleeding wound and the pained expression he saw on the man's face, he had probably broken a few of the man's ribs. This confirmed two things for the young man. One, that the armor was far stronger than he originally thought and two, Vryolak did not use Aura.

Whitley raised his right arm and pulled up a panel, revealing a hidden yet primitive rocket launcher. He then aimed a rocket at the terrorist, who responded by pulling out his pistol again, which he quickly aimed at the teen's helmet. A tense stand-off ensued as the two opponents kept their eyes and weapons trained on the other, trying to gauge who will fire first.

Whitley spoke to Vryolak in a commanding tone, "Drop the gun. You're outmatched."

"Go to hell, Schnee!"

Whitley's voice became more forced as he ordered, "I said drop the damn gun, you insane bastard!"

Vryolak grit his teeth as he pulled the gun's firing pin back. As he kept the sights of his pistol trained on his armored opponent, he analyzed his situation and evaluated what actions he can take.

He was sure that he had a few broken ribs, and he was definitely sure that one of them had stabbed his lungs, as he found that it was getting harder to breath. He was also bleeding badly, meaning that punch had cut into his skin as well. The brat's armor gave him strength that no doubt far-exceeded his own. That same strength had been used on his soldiers, meaning that not even the advantage of superior numbers can stand in the Schnee's way. That was his situation.

As for his options, they didn't look good. If he fired his pistol, the armor will just deflect it, and the boy will kill him with a rocket. Even if he was able to kill the boy, he'd have Mr. X to contend with, meaning a slow and gruesome death that'll be dragged on for days. He'd rather not share go through something like that.

If not Mr. X, then A.I.M. will surely go after him for having lost so much precious data from the supplies they had given his group. Especially after Savin, whom they usually communicated with, had decided to desert, meaning that he was useless to them.

Lastly, if he dropped his weapon and made a run for it, his soldiers waiting outside will see his broken body and no doubt seize the opportunity and kill him. He knew that his troops hated him and that their fear of his strength was what kept them in line.

In short, it all boiled to either getting killed by the boy, or his former benefactor, or by his own soldiers.

That's when he decided upon another option. One that will let him end things on is terms.

"Fuck it." He spat out.

He pressed the barrel of his pistol underneath his chin.

 _BANG!_

Whitley watched in shock as Vryolak fell back on his feet, with half of his face missing and smoke radiating from the barrel of his pistol. The boy lowered his arm, but found he was unable to move his gaze from his tormentor's corpse. Miklos Vryolak, The infamous Minotaur, a man who had prided himself on his huntsman-like strength and control over the lives of others, and delighted in the torture and deaths of his enemies had killed himself. This man, who hated humanity with a passion, chose to kill himself. He'd rather take his own life than let a filthy human take it.

"A gruesome end for a gruesome person..." Yinsen's weak voice roused him from his stupor.

He saw the doctor lying down on a pile of white rice bags, which had been stained red by his blood. He noticed that the bottom part of the old man's shirt was now a very deep crimson. He had lost too much blood. The boy quickly went over to his dying friend and knelt beside him. Releasing the clasps holding his facemask in place, the boy raised it up, his face visible to the world.

"Come on, get up, old man, I can still get you out of here." The boy told the doctor, desperately clinging to the hope that he can still save the man's life.

"No... Just leave me here. I'm dead, no matter what." The doctor replied, the light fading from his eyes.

"Come on, we had a plan."

" _This_ was always the plan, Schnee."

Shocked by the confessions, Whitley asked the man. "But what about your family, don't you want to see them again?"

Tears fell from Yinsen's eyes as he sadly replied, "My family's dead... These monsters burned them inside our house... But I'm going to see them now, Schnee."

Whitley stared pityingly at the doctor. Yinsen saw this and reassuringly said, "It' okay. I want this... I want this."

He watched as the doctor reached into his shirt's breast pocket. With a shaky hand, the doctor pulled out a small object. He then held his hand over Whitley's and dropped the object into his. It was a ring, a golden ring. He gave the jewelry to Whitley and asked him, "Promise me, when you get out of here, that you'll go to Gulmira and bury my wedding ring with my wife. Will you do that for me?"

Whitley stared at the ring in the palm. Without a second thought, he told the man, "I promise."

"Thank you... my friend."

Whitley smiled sadly, tears welling up in his eyes. He then told his savior, "Thank you for saving my life."

"Don't waste it, then. Don't waste your life, Schnee..."

The light in Yinsen's began to fade as his breathing became slower. Then he looked beyond the teen and smiled, "I see them... I see..."

With those final words, Yinsen drew his last breath. His head fell backward, lying down upon the pile of bloodied rice bags that had served as his death bed. Whitley stared at the prone corpse of his friend. Something in him broke when he saw the light finally fade from the doctor's eyes. For the first time in many years, Whitley Schnee cried. He cried his heart out as he mourned the passing of his friend, a good man who didn't deserve what had happened to him.

Grief quickly became anger when he remembered that there were more soldiers were outside. The thought that the bastards responsible for so much death and misery were still alive filled him with disgust. He was not going to let them harm anyone else.

Depositing Yinsen's ring into a small compartment, the young man rose to his feet once. His anger ignited into full fury as he steeled himself for what was coming. What these monsters did to others, he was going to inflict upon them tenfold. He pulled down the face mask and clamped it tightly onto his helmet.

In that moment, he became more than Whitley Schnee.

He was now an armored avenger.

* * *

It was quiet in the camp as the Vryolak Loyalists waited for their commander to Appear. It had been close to an hour since they were ordered to hold position outside of the mine. But as they waited, they heard what sounded like a pitched battle from inside the mine. Minutes later, the sound of a single gunshot echoed through the camp. As they feared disobeying their leader, the Faunus extremists held their positions.

Suddenly, they heard a harsh rumbling erupt from the cave. For some, it sounded like thunder from a coming storm. For others, it resembled more the beating of a war drum. Seconds later, a figure emerged from the dark abyss of the mine. At first, they assumed it was Vryolak.

But once the individual was in full view, they nearly jumped in fright. Standing in full view of the gathered terrorist, was a person in a set of armor. The grey armor shined in the blast of the morning sun as it stood with a defiant stance. Scattered over the armor were dents, scratches, and what seemed to specks of dried blood. The sight of this metal man nearly frightened them.

Eventually, someone worked up the nerve to shout, "Open fire!"

The extremists immediately followed the order, spraying the area where the metal man stood with a volley of bullets. The metal man didn't even budge as he was pelted with bullets, standing his ground without even wavering in his stance. Soon, the extremists spent their ammunition. They stood in shock as the armored man continued to stare at them, freezing them in place as he locked his scowling metal glare upon them.

 _Just what the hell is this thing?_ Many of them wondered.

The metal man then growled lowly, "My turn, fuckers."

He then flexed his arms out, flames shooting out. Like the breath of the dragon, the fire shot out quickly and furiously. The front line was immediately engulfed in the flames, the burning terrorists either falling dead or dancing wildly as they burned. Those not caught in the fiery waves retreated, but it did them no good as the fires washed over the crates holding their stolen weapons.

The heat of the fires ignited much of the stored ammunition, starting a chain reaction as explosions of debris and body parts erupted. Many of the Fangs that had sought cover were blown back as their barricades exploded near them. No matter where they went, the extremists could not escape the growing sea of flames. Their metal attacker strolled through the flames without a care, waving his arms about as the flames shot from beneath his wrists.

In the center of the camp, the holographic projector which had hid their camp for so long exploded, revealing the hidden holdout to the world. Whitley saw this and smile as he watched the hologram flicker and fade before disappearing altogether. But that's when he noticed that the fire was starting to get out of control. If he stayed here any longer, he was either gonna burn to death or die from smoke inhalation.

He took this as his moment to cease his assault. With his left hand, he flipped a panel on his right arm over, revealing a red button. Without any hesitation, he pressed the button. Two streams of fire shot out from his feet, propelling him into the air. Just as his feet flew off the earth, a great explosion erupted within the camp, a large plume of flame and smoke reaching high into the sky.

From this cloud, a lone object rocketed out, flying away from the area. It was Whitley Schnee, who grit his as the strong winds and G-forces slammed into this body. He opened his eyes, which he had closed once he launched, and saw the open desert beneath him and the rich blue skies around him. Suddenly, he heard the thrusters sputter before dying. After rising high into the air, he was falling through it. He screamed as his body went into free-fall.

He tugged on a string situated on his waist. He was rewarded with the relieving sound of fabric unfurling as a parachute opened. The Schnee relaxed as he let the desert winds guide the parachute. Shuffling his head to his left, he saw a dark cloud rise from where the extremist camp had been located. He felt immense satisfaction as he watched the smoke reach into sky. Soon, he felt semi-solid ground again as he landed in the desert. The landing was rough as it forced the boy to fall face down into the sand. The parachute followed suit, still blowing in the wind as it rested on the ground.

After pushing himself onto his back, Whitley spent the next few seconds trying to calm his nerves. Once he was fully relaxed, he removed his helmet. His sweaty, dirt-smudged face basked in the warmth of his sun, his matted and wet hair drying from its heat. He looked up at the blue sky, the same sky he had been soaring through only moments before, and savored the feeling of relief and joy that washed over him.

He was finally free.

With an exhausted sigh, The Schnee laid his head upon the warm desert sands.

"Not bad," he remarked as he basked in his newfound freedom

* * *

 **Whoa, this was hard to write. Sorry it took so long to update. I've been busy with essays, assignments, and exams... sooooo many exams...**

 **Oh, and I adopted a dog, which just added more things into my already hectic schedule. The little guy is really energetic and just can't seem to sit still for long. He also barks, a lot. I also have no idea what breed he is, considering he's a mixed breed.**

 **Anyway, I hope you can all forgive how rushed this chapter is. I had a bit of trouble writing the action scenes, considering that this is the first had to write them. If anyone has any advice on how to write better action sequences that are very well-written, fluid, and show a lot of planning behind them, please tell me in the reviews.**

 **I have also reached a compromise with the word count situation. From now on, every chapter will be 7-9,000 words long. While this may separate chapters into different parts, it also means that more content will be publish and in a shorter amount of time.**

 **Finally, I am also collaborating with the Timeless Writer for their story "The Worlds of Arc" (The collaboration in question is the Last Fall of Cybertron Chapter) and I'm beta-reading "RWBY Cinema Action" written by D.N. Works (Whose story will have this chapter as one of the featured stories to be reacted to). I am also hard at work at writing another chapter for "Two Knights at Arkham" and writing three new stories for this site I've been working on for a long time.**

 **As for other stuff I've done: I haven't seen the Joker movie, as it came out when I was doing a lot of school work that I had to devote time to. I did see Terminator: Dark Fate (My opinion of that movie is this: While it is a definite improvement over Genisys and Salvation, it's not going to save the franchise. Then again, the terminator series has been dead to me since they cancelled the awesome Sarah Connor Chronicles.)**

 **Now to address some story details and questions:**

 **I didn't even know that I made a Kim's Convenience reference (If someone would point out what it was, I'd be thankful)**

 **Vryolak is an actual minor comic villain, and he was known as the Minotaur. He didn't have much of a presence, or personality, so I just gave him one and RWBYfied him.**

 **Savin is also character from Marvel Comics. He is better known as Coldblood-7, a cyborg mercenary. A very loose and poorly translated interpretation of the character was portrayed as a secondary antagonist in the third Iron Man movie.**

 **The last chapter's title was a reference to the Audioslave song "Cochise", which was used for the first full trailer for the first Iron Man. It also works almost like the ending song for this character arc, as it describes Whitley's evolution to a tee.**

 **I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, despite its numerous flaws (Notably misspelled words). Another chapter will be published before the year ends.**

 **Until then, Happy Holidays and remember to read this story's sister fic "The Amazing Jaune Arc" (They're set in the same universe)**


	7. Some Things You Can't Escape, Part 2

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **Author Warning: Expect some angst from Whitley this chapter. Not to mention some psychological shit that'll take him years to get over. Thankfully, he'll find a rather unorthodox coping mechanism in the next chapter.**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter Seven: Some Things You Can't Escape (Part 2)**

* * *

It was early morning in Mantle. All across the city, the citizens were either waking up or trying to sleep in as the sun rose. Those who woke greeted the morning sun like an old friend, while those who tried to sleep regarded the bright ball of light as a pest. Among those who regarded the sun with complete and utter contempt was James Rhodes.

As he lay in his bed, the man stared at the light peeking through his window blinds. After spending the entire night going over yesterday's sales records, the man wanted nothing more than to sleep the morning off. He had people who can open the shop for him, people that he can trust to run things before his arrival. He also had another reason to hate the morning, specifically this one.

"Uncle Jim, wake up, we're going to be late."

Today just happened to be the day his niece, Ciel Soleil, was moving into the dorms at Atlas Academy. The man loved his niece and he was incredibly proud that she wanted to be a huntress, but there was a small part of him that dreaded this day more than anything. Because after Ciel moved out, for the first time in many years, he'll be all alone. His friends told him that he might start suffering Empty Nest Syndrome after she moved out. He didn't imagine that it'd kick in before she even left the apartment.

With a resigned sigh, he pulled the covers off and rose from bed. He had taken a shower the night before, giving him more time to change clothes. After changing into a nicely-pressed buttoned shirt and some khaki's, Rhodes opened the door. He was greeted with the sight of his niece, who was already dressed in her academy and lugging two duffel bags. The only present item of clothing that was her own was her blue beret, which she always wore proudly atop her head. It had once belonged to her mother and Rhodey's sister, Jeannette.

She checked her watch and told her uncle. "It's already 6: 08 AM. The first shuttle to Atlas takes off at 6: 45, and it'll take more than thirty minutes to get to the airport. Depending on traffic, which is expected to be high today, our trip could be extended by five minutes. If we are to arrive in time, we must leave now."

"Ciel, be patient." He began before adding, "Like you said, it's only the _first_ shuttle. There'll be plenty of others."

Ciel frowned, "But I'm ready to move. I had been planning this move for days. I even slept in my uniform to save time."

"Yes, I understand how you- wait, you slept in your uniform?" Rhodes asked in disbelief.

"Of course... Why are you confused? You did the same thing when you were in the Air Force."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, "Ciel, I only did that because I was on active duty. In those days, the time it took to change clothes was literally a matter of life and death."

He wasn't lying, considering all of the action he saw during the Faunus war. Considering the frequency of enemy attacks, Rhodey had often been forced into action nearly every day. There were days when each attack occurred within several hours of each other. He had to wear his flight suit for days on end, only to take it off to take a shower or to wash it when he didn't have a spare. He hoped that his Niece never had to go through something like that.

"Look, Ciel, can you just humor your uncle and spend one last morning at home, before I take you to the airport?" He pleaded before adding, "I'll even make your favorite breakfast."

Ciel tapped her chin as she thought about it. Running a few calculations in her mind, she envisioned various scenarios that ultimately ended with an immensely elated Uncle and her own satisfaction. The deciding factor was ultimately the double-stacked pancakes dressed in maple syrup topped off by chocolate syrup. That and she felt she owed her uncle for looking after for all these years.

"I can catch one of the afternoon shuttles." She spoke, "For now, I'll just spend my time with my favorite uncle."

Rhodes chuckled and ruffled her hair, slightly shaking her beret.

"I'm your only uncle!" He said.

"That's why you're my favorite." She replied, fixing her hair and beret with a small smile.

"Alright, just put the bags back in your room, I'll be down in a few minutes to start on breakfast." He ordered, finishing his sentence with a salute.

Ciel saluted her uncle and walked back into her room, eagerly anticipating the smell and taste chocolate-maple syrup coated pancakes. Rhodes watched her door close with a resigned yet contented sigh.

"Hard to believe she's that same little girl who tried to march around in my boots." He said to himself.

He honestly can't believe how quickly the time flew by. It only seemed like yesterday that he was teaching her how to walk up the stairs. Seventeen years later, she's now fully capable of jumping a whole flight of stairs in a single bound.

 _Save the trip down memory lane for after she leaves, Rhodey._ He promised himself.

He then retreated back into his room to retrieve his scroll. As loathe as he was to admit it, he cannot function properly without his scroll. Since his scroll contained his schedule, contacts, and personal memos, it was essentially his own personal assistant, one that can fit within his pocket.

He found it on the nightstand, right where he had left it. He quickly unlocked the screen with a swipe of his finger, granting him access to the various scroll apps. He clicked on his news alerts and immediately scrolled through the list of notifications.

 _Top 10 best vacation spots;_ he swiped away.

 _Another Spider-Man sighting in Vale;_ he saved that to his reading list.

 _Half of Mantle's police force has gone on strike;_ saved to reading list.

 _Jacques Schnee announces buyout of Rand's Solitas holdings;_ swiped away with extreme prejudice.

 _There hasn't been any more news on Whitley's disappearance?_ He thought disappointedly.

Like Pepper and Happy, he has been worried sick about his godson. When the boy's father had released that bogus cover-up story, he wanted nothing more than to fly all the way to Atlas and punch that insufferable bastard in his smug, mustachioed face. Ironwood's investigation team had no success in finding the boy, neither had the MSIS team after they took over. It has been close to three months, and Whitley was still missing, possibly even dead.

And even if he were alive right now, he can't even begin to imagine what the poor kid must be going through.

* * *

As he sat in the desert under the bright Animan afternoon sun, Whitley Schnee pondered his current predicament.

"I can't believe I'm actually going through with this!" He growled as he stitched his wound.

Minutes ago, after waking from a short nap, he began removing the plating of his armor, until he felt a sharp stabbing pain on the underside of his upper left arm. When he looked to his clothed arm, he was shocked to find a small cut in the flame-proof fabric, one that happened to be dyed a very dark red. Unzipping the coveralls, he freed his arm from the damaged sleeve and found that his arm had been nicked, doubtlessly by a bullet. While not certainly life-threatening, it would have been unwise to leave it untreated.

Thankfully, his time with Yinsen had taught him a few things.

 _Yinsen..._ The boy thought in grief over his dead friend.

He will always be grateful to the Faunus doctor who saved his life. His death weighed heavily on the young man's mind, and he can't help but wonder that if he had done things differently he could have saved his life. But given the man's last words, he wondered if saving the man's would have been a cruel kindness. The only reassuring thought was that his friend was now reunited with his family in a much better place.

Whitley snorted in humor. _Listen to yourself, Whit, one near brush with death and you're already convinced there's an afterlife._

But then he smiled and thought. _But I really do hope you've found peace, my friend. You deserve it more than I._

A sudden gust of warm desert wind assaulted his still open wound, causing the boy to wince and return his attention to his wound. He resumed stitching up the wound, using a pattern that the late doctor had taught him. It stung whenever he pulled the needle through his skin, but he had to work through the pain if he wanted that wound closed. Within seconds that honestly felt like an excruciating eternity, the young Schnee had finally closed the wound.

For a brief moment, he relished his small victory, another in a long string of successes in an otherwise FUBAR plan.

Then he remembered the second part of his impromptu treatment.

Cauterizing the wound before it can get infected.

He stared down at the disassembled armor lying in the desert sand, which he had propped the flamethrower upon as it spent the last of its fire Dust heating a long, jagged shard of metal. He had been able to pry a piece of the armor off with the endoskeleton, which he then fired the flame thrower upon. It had been minutes since he started the process and he can see that metal shard was searing red hot.

He switched the flame thrower off, which sputtered out the last bits of flame with choking gasp. Carefully, he picked up the unheated side of the metal shard. For a good few seconds he stared at the red-hot metal with an apprehension he hadn't felt since his capture. It will be painful, pressing heated metal against wounded flesh, but that kind of pain was minor and brief compared to grievous and drawn-out torture that was an infection.

He took a deep breath and brought the shard next to his wound. As the metal inched closer to his wound, thoughts of the coming pain flooded his mind, drowning his once steadfast resolve with a sudden cowardice. He jerked the shard away from his arm and growled.

"Gods damn it all, why didn't I pack any anesthetic?" Whitley asked himself, "Oh, wait, I remember, because I thought I wouldn't get hurt escaping."

Aside from the anesthetic, he had neglected to pack any rubbing alcohol. He had feared that somehow the metal compartment holding the first aid kit wasn't secure enough, which would have caused the alcohol glass to shatter. Add the fact the compartment was located on the same arm where the flame thrower was placed and it would have been a complete disaster.

The armor had been a good design, but it was still flawed.

 _Congrats, Whit, you've graduated from reckless genius to a reckless idiot._ The boy bitterly thought as he admonished himself for his short-sightedness.

He looked at his stitched-up wound and thought. _But even an idiot has to take care of himself._

He then tapped the fingers of his left hand on his knee was went into deep thought.

 _Alright, think. You haven't packed any anesthetics, so you'll feel the pain. You haven't activated the Grimm-Deterrent yet, which means your screams of pure agony will attract any nearby Grimm to you. Wait, aren't the Grimm attracted to negative emotions? I've been feeling nothing but outrage and pain, so- No, focus, Schnee, FOCUS, treatment now, worry later!_

He honestly had no idea what he can do to lessen the pain. As he thought about his predicament, he looked down at his left hand, which was still tapping the heavy fabric of his flame-retardant working fatigues. That's when the proverbial light bulb lit up in the boy's mind.

 _That's it! I can't get rid of the pain, but I can focus on something else as I treat the wound._

With his left arm, he pulled up his left sleeve and balled up the end of it. He then shoved the balled-up wad to his face and bit down hard, his teeth gnashing and grinding on rough fabric.

"Armrrgh rff foo fis," He spoke fearlessly in his muffled voice.

Again, he brought the searing hot metal shard to his closed wound. He breathed in and out, trying to calm his already frayed nerves. He started counting.

 _1..._

He tightened his grip on the shard.

 _2..._

He bit harder into the ball of fabric.

 _3..._

He steeled his resolve.

 _GO!_

He pressed the searing metal shard onto his wound. Whitley shut his eyes and let out an anguished and muffled skin as he felt hot metal sear his skin. His teeth sank deeper into the fabric, his mind trying to focus on that act rather than the pain exploding in his arm. After a few agonizingly painful seconds, he retracted the metal fragment from his wound and tossed it aside. Whitley fell onto his side and writhed in pain, his feet kicking up sand.

His mouth still stuffed with fabric, he cried out in a muffled voice, "MRRMF, MFFRFGGN COGSOGGN PEEFAFIT FAD HGRT RYK A MFFRFGGR!"

If there had been any people there with him, they no doubt would have blushed like tomatoes after hearing what the teenager just screamed.

Thankfully, Whitley was all alone.

After a few second, Whitley spat the ball of fabric out of his mouth and inhaled all the air he can into his lungs. He then sat back up and rubbed his now cauterized wound.

He then spoke aloud, "Okay, not gonna lie, that was honestly more painful than the shrapnel in my chest."

 _All right, If Winter ever had to deal with this kind of shit; I definitely don't envy her now._ He thought.

He rose to his feet, albeit very clumsily. Sand, as it turned out, was not very sturdy. He looked out over the distance and saw smoke cloud that was still rising from what had been his prison for months. It finally sank in that he was free. After three months of forced labor, psychological and emotional torture, he was finally free.

For some reason he couldn't quite understand, he started to laugh. The laughter just welled up inside of him, and he let it all out. He was just so happy! No more will he have to build bombs with a gun pressed to his head! No more will he have to work tirelessly under threat of having someone executed! No longer will he be forced to watch as people dies in his stead!

This was a euphoria he had never felt before! He felt like he can do anything!

If he can escape from a mine filled with armed terrorists, then he can do absolutely anything.

 _But do you deserve to feel this happy?_

Surprised by this sudden thought, he stopped his laughter.

Where had that come from?

 _Do you honestly believe you deserve this?_

He can't understand why he was feeling so depressed all of a sudden. He had just escaped from capture, so he should have been feeling over the moon right now. He was alive, so why was he feeling so disgusted with himself. He survived what so few people ever could.

 _I survived..._

Whitley's smile fell as a wave of memories crashing into his mind.

 _... Eyes glazed and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream, as a small pool of blood formed around his head..._

 _...Scattered all over the burning holding area, trapped in glowing cells or shackled to stone walls were burnt, blackened corpses..._

 _...Yinsen drew his last breath. His head fell backward, lying down upon the pile of bloodied rice bags that had served as his death bed..._

As memories of his time spent in captivity came rushing to the forefront of his mind, Whitley felt an unbearable guilt build within him. Why had only _he_ survived and no one else? Why did his friend have to die while he lived? Why did he have to live?

As his mind became flooded with the memories of Doyle, Yinsen, and all those people who had died, another set of memories came crashing in like a tidal wave. Memories of his captors as the delighted in torturing their prisoners, all the times he had been forced to help with body disposal and, most of all, what he had done in his escape.

He recalled how he punched and kicked all those people with his ridiculously overpowered armor, breaking bodies as he marched his way to freedom. He remembered when he practically paralyzed a man, leaving him to bleed out. His plan was to escape, yet he had all this rage and anger in him. As he advanced further into his escape, these emotions gradually concentrated to form a bloodlust he never thought he was capable of feeling.

He came to a frightening realization, _Oh, gods above; did_ I _really_ kill _all those people?!_

Images of the life-threatening injuries he had inflicted on his captors rushed through his mind. Unable to bear the weight of all the death he had wrought, the boy dropped to his knees. He started hyperventilating, before he felt something stir from within him. He gripped his stomach as an overwhelming feeling of nausea overpowered him.

Whitley lurched forward as a stream of vomit escaped his mouth and fell onto the desert sands.

Despite the horrid taste in his mouth, the boy tried to control his breathing. As he strove to control his turbulent emotions, he looked once more at the smoke cloud in the distance. As he stared at the steadily rising pillar of ash and smoke, Vryolak's words came back to haunt him.

 _I gave the order to burn them, but_ you're _the one who_ murdered _them._

"No... No... NO!" Whitley roared as he pounded his fists into the sand.

He quickly crawled over to the armor. Picking up the right gauntlet, he opened a small compartment. He reached in and pulled out the Grimm-Deterrent device he had built with Yinsen. Seeing that it was fully powered, he switched it on. A small humming sound was heard as the device came to life. Whitley set the device down.

As the device sent out a wave pulse that ward off Grimm, the boy sat on his butt and pulled his knees to his legs. Burying his face into his knees, he fought to keep more tears from falling as he tried to get his racing mind back under control. As he did so, he tried to remind himself of a very important fact.

He was not a cold-blooded and bloodthirsty murderer.

He was not a murderer.

* * *

"Damn it all to hell, how hard is it to find one teenager?!"

In the two months since he took over the operation to search for and rescue Whitley Schnee, Jasper Sitwell was close to calling it quits. No matter how many patrols they sent out, no matter how many times they swept the desert, they just can't seem to find the boy or his corpse. Sitwell had long convinced himself that the boy was dead. There was just no way that a boy, no matter how intelligent he was, can survive the harsh and unforgiving Atreides desert.

He honestly wondered just why the Director gave him this mission. Right now, he could be with Coulson tracking that vigilante in Vale, or investigating that Aura User trafficking ring with Woo in Vacuo. Hell, he'd even tolerate spending time with that blowhard specialist Blonsky while hunting Banner.

He could be out there doing some good, but instead he's stuck looking for a dead body. The agent slumped in his chair and took off his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Am I even making a difference anymore?" He asked aloud to nobody.

It hadn't been the first time he's asked himself that question. While the official record may state he's a member of the Mistral Special Intelligence Service, his true allegiance is to another organization, one that the whole of Remnant was not ready to know existed. For years, they have subsisted on private donations from innumerable sources, under the stipulation that they never swear allegiance to a single kingdom.

"But Gods know we can do so much more if we stopped hiding." He said.

If the agency had gotten involved, they would probably have found Whitley Schnee in two weeks rather than months. They have all the resources to make it possible, but they hold themselves back, all for the sake of maintain anonymity.

They have enough money to build four secret super-prisons, but can't spare a single lien to find one teenager?

 _No, we'd rather use MSIS as a proxy._ Sitwell admitted to himself.

A sudden rapping on the door broke him from his thoughts.

After composing himself, he spoke, "Enter."

The door opened, with a young MSIS agent revealed to be on the other side of it. She then entered her superior's office and approached his desk. She stopped a good few inches and stood at attention before giving him a crisp salute.

Sitwell reciprocated the salute and asked, "Agent, do you have something for me?"

The agent nodded and replied, "Yes, sir. We just received some transmissions from villages in the Atreides Desert. They reported that they heard what sounded like a vast explosion coming from the vicinity of Caladan Canyon. This was followed by what they described as a Miles-wide smoke cloud."

"Caladan Canyon," Sitwell said before he scoffed, "Impossible, we've sent search parties out there and they never found anything that can cause an explosion."

"I'm only telling you what's been reported, sir." The agent said.

Sitwell sighed and spoke, "But there's no doubt that the villagers are panicking. It also won't be a stretch to say that an illegal mining operation might've been started there. As I recall, there are a series of abandoned mines up there, ones said to have been inhabited by Grimm."

He pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote on it. Once he was finished writing, he handed it to the agent.

"That is a request for the Mistral Council to deploy troops to the Atreides Desert. Tell them what villages need help."

The agent nodded and moved to fill out the request. Before she left the room, she asked Sitwell, "And what do you intend to do, sir."

Sitwell rose up and straightened his tie. He then told her, "To get another search party in the air. I want to make sure that I didn't miss anything."

* * *

"All right, I think that's everything." Whitley said as he packed the last of his survival kit into the knapsack.

After spending several minutes to calm himself after his emotional episode, the boy set about gathering all the supplies that would ensure his survival. The supplies in his knapsack were collected over a period of two months, with his supplier being Yinsen, who had gathered by calling in certain favors from Fangs that he had patched up.

 _Fangs that are most likely dead- No, stop right there! Focus, just focus on the now!_ Whitley reminded himself, now wasn't the time to have another panic attack.

If he started to panic now, then he'll die.

 _Maybe I should check my supplies again; anything to take my mind off of... that._

Whitley took off the knapsack and held it before himself. He inspected the sleeping bag strapped to the top of the knapsack, and found that it was still in good condition. Opening the pack up, he looked inside to see that everything was still as organized as he left it. He had three water bottles, which were to be rationed. He had a roll of gauze, which he had recently used to wrap up his cauterized wound. There was a prescription bottle of painkillers, of which he had already taken one. Next to the painkillers was the Grimm Deterrent Box, which was running at full power. He also had some kindling and some sticks for firewood, which he would also ration. Finally, there were two very thick journals, one of which he had not known was even included.

One belonged to him.

The other had belonged to Yinsen. He figured that the doctor wanted his story told.

 _I'll make sure you're never forgotten, my friend._

He reached into his pants pocket and fished out the man's wedding ring, the one that he had promised to bury with his wife. Whitley had never thought he would come to regard a small golden ring as having value outside of its material. To Yinsen, this ring represented the better part of his life; that of a loving husband and father.

To Whitley, it was the representation of a good man's last will, one that he had asked him to fulfill. He swore that before he ever left Anima, he will reunite Yinsen's ring with his family. It was the closest thing the doctor will get to a proper burial.

He took a deep breath and returned the ring to his pocket.

He looked ahead, beholding the majesty of the vast Atreides Desert. Under a clear, blue Animan sky, vast plains of golden sand stretched far into the horizon, where the sky and land met. Nothing but sand dunes for as far as the eye can see, with a range of mountains off in the far distance. From what he remembered from his past lessons on geography, the Atreides supposedly spanned nearly the entirety of Eastern Anima.

And he was going to walk across it. Hopefully, he'd only have to walk until he either found civilization or until civilization found him... or until he died.

Whitley took one final glance at the smoke cloud behind him, which continued to billow out into the sky above. One last time, he savored the feeling of freedom.

He then looked out to the horizon and took the first step in his journey.

* * *

It was late evening when Whitley decided to stop for the night. He had been walking for hours and his feet stung, like they had been stepping on hot coals all day. He had drunk half of the water in his first water bottle, and despite every desire to do so, refrained from drinking more. He still needed it for later. His muscles were tired and he felt that if he didn't stop, he would pass out from exhaustion. If he passed out, he'll die.

He had since found refuge beside a large rock, one that had a very peculiar shape. It was round, as most rocks were, but the top sort of warped outward, providing some much needed shade. It was also surrounded by smaller yet still huge rocks, ones that can offer protection from the wind and nosy Grimm. Not that any would try anything with him, considering the GD box was still running at full power.

He was quite pleased with himself to have designed it with a solar battery, which had been charging all the long day.

 _Not to mention the back-up lunar battery, which will be charging through the night;_ He proudly thought.

He unstrapped and unfurled the sleeping bag, making sure to place in a spot that offered the most comfort. Before he slept, he made sure that the GD box was close by, in the likelihood that he needed to pack up quickly. Setting his knapsack beside him, Whitley let out a relieved smile, glad that he had been able to survive his first day out in the desert.

If only he had food. Oh, gods, did he wish he had a delicious dinner to finish the day out.

But he doesn't and does not have the skill to even hunt his meals. Not to mention any weapons to hunt said meal with.

 _Then again, the human body can survive a month without food._ Whitley reasoned with himself.

He unzipped the sleeping bag and slipped under the covers. He nestled himself into his nylon-cotton shelter. By the time the first stars appeared, the boy had fallen asleep. But as he slept, something began to happen.

* * *

 _Whitley didn't understand what was happening to him. Just a few minutes ago, he had been safe and sound on a Bullhead in the air. Now, here he was, lying flat on his back in the desert, his Bullhead now a flaming wreck, and a missile had just torn his chest apart. He can't move, his body numbed by pain and fear. He can't hear anything except for the ringing in his ears. All he can see is the sky, the clear, blue Animan sky that was now filled with flying bullets and missiles._

 _Through bloodstained teeth, he croaked out, "Help me..."_

 _Suddenly, he found movement in his neck, as he moved his head to his right. He watched in hope as Atlesian soldiers, his protection detail, fought ferociously from behind their rocky barricades. If anyone can save him it was the brave and dedicated soldiers of the Atlas Army. One of the soldiers noticed the boy and moved away from his comrades to tend to his wounds._

 _The helmeted soldier slid next to the boy, bullets flying over his head. The soldier laid their rifle on the ground. The soldier then looked down at the boy's chest, which was bleeding and shredded, and his face fell. Whitley didn't like the look of that frown._

 _The soldier removed his helmet, revealing hair white as snow and artic blue eyes colder than ice. Staring down at Whitley was himself._

 _Whitley's eyes widened in fear and he cried out in terror, "No-No-NO!"_

 _Soldier-Whitley looked the original in the eyes with a pitying look._

" _You can't escape." He told the original._

 _Suddenly, there was a sound of distant thunder. Whitley looked upward and saw to his horror that thousands of missiles flying through the vast blue. Contrails filled the skies as the missiles flew. Suddenly, the missiles began to coalesce, coming together to form one vast projectile. Within seconds, a single missile, one big enough to blot out the sun, began to fall from the sky._

 _As it fell, Whitley realized that the missile was aimed right at him. Again, he tried to move, but found that he was unable to. Even if he had been able, he would have been held down to the ground by literally himself, as Soldier-Whitley held his wrists down to the ground. He screamed and cried out for someone to help him, but no one came to help him. No one was going to help him._

 _Soldier-Whitley spoke in a reassuring tone, "Don't worry. It'll all be over soon."_

 _The missile was now seconds from impact. Knowing he had no chance of escaping, Whitley shut his eyes and waited for the coming explosion. Moments passed before he heard a detonation. But to his surprise, he didn't feel sharp pain or the sudden waves of flame. But he certainly felt the rushing wind pass over his body._

 _He opened his eyes and suddenly realized why he only felt the wind._

 _He was falling. Above, he saw the large hole he had fallen through. He watched the hole shrank as he fell further into the abyss, the only source of being the light which poured through the opening. Eventually, he landed roughly on the ground. To his surprise, the boy found that he was unharmed._

 _Save for the bloody and shredded hole in his chest._

" _What have you done?!" He heard a familiar and outraged voice demand._

 _The voice echoed in the dark void, reverberating off nonexistent walls as Whitley tried to find its place of origin._

" _If this boy is gonna live, we need to do something about his wound!" The voice shouted in urgency._

 _It was then that Whitley realized that the voice was emanating from the opening above him. He looked up and saw that some kind of strange instrument was poking through it. It reminded him of a scalpel. When he trained his eyes to focus upon the object, it dawned on him that he was indeed staring at the razor of a large scalpel._

 _The scalpel then moved forward, slicing through the edge of the edge, creating a small thin crack through which light escaped. The razor then slid back to cut the adjacent side, creating another thin line of light. As the scalpel cut through hole, Whitley felt an unbearable pain his chest._

 _He looked down to see the hole in his chest had grown wider, like a knife had sliced through it._

 _No, like a scalpel;_

" _Make it stop..." He pleaded through the pain._

 _Suddenly, the light shining through the hole began to fade, as something slid over it. To the panicking boy, it was like watching a solar eclipse. Little by little, a strange object obstructed the light, until finally it enveloped the hole entirely, creating nothing but pure darkness._

 _Whitley shivered as he tried to pace himself. He can't see anything, and all he can hear is his own labored breath and a soft electronic humming emanating from his chest. He reached for his chest with his right hand. Just as it made contact, he felt a warm feeling inside that he can't explain. He peeled his hand back and the void was suddenly illuminated by a bright blue glow._

 _Whitley stared down at the strange circular light in his chest with a fascinated gleam in his eyes. It was beautiful, it was mesmerizing and it made him feel safe. For the first time in a long time, he felt truly and utterly proud of himself. He felt like he can conquer anything. Nothing can possibly stand in his way!_

" _Pride cometh before the fall, eh, Schnee?" He heard another familiar voice ask._

 _This voice, unlike the last, was cold, vindictive, and full of hate._

 _And it was coming from behind him._

 _He turned around and jumped in fright at the face before. Standing before him was Private Doyle, staring at him with lifeless eyes. The man was dressed in his uniform, though his skin had lost its complexion, and there was a small hole in his forehead, which was surrounded by coagulated blood._

 _It took all of Whitley's willpower not to vomit._

" _You can't escape, Schnee." Doyle told the boy in a dry and hoarse voice._

 _Suddenly, the standing corpse's hands shot out to take hold of the boy's wrists. Despite putting his all into breaking free from the cadaver's grasp, the boy found that he was unable to. Slowly, Doyle raised the boy's arms. He stopped once the boy's hands were right in front of his face. Applying a little more pressure, Doyle forced the Schnee to turn his hands until the palms were in his face. Through the entire ordeal, he had been able to keep his hands tightly clasped into fists._

" _You can't escape what you've done, boy!" Doyle shouted aggressively, but not in his own voice._

 _This voice belonged to Vryolak._

 _He watched as Doyle's face contorted, his youthful features becoming more rugged and vicious. Suddenly, the man's orange hair began to darken, before becoming a bloody red. Two horns sprouted out from beneath the bangs, growing outward until they were piercing the air. Doyle's clouded and glazed over blue eyes warped into a fiery hazel, as new life was breathed into them._

 _Finally, the bullet hole began to stretch, before cutting the entire left half of Vryolak's face. Whitley watched in disgust as flesh was ripped away from the man's wounds. The exposed muscles beneath darkened and bled, before finally the eye exploded in a cloud of tissue and blood. So deep was the wound that the boy can actually see the man's skull._

" _You can't escape from all the blood you've shed!" Vryolak roared as he released his hold on the boy's hands._

" _Now drown in it!" He told the boy before he sunk into the ground, laughing all the way as flames engulfed him._

 _It was then that Whitley felt something wet and sticky in his palms. He opened his fists and saw that his palms had cuts in them. These were deep cuts, so deep that blood was pushing out through them._

 _But then things took a turn for the worse as the blood began to seep in full force, rapidly pushing through his cut palms. In moments, more blood spurted out, as it soon leaked in droves from his now-bloodied hands. Whitley then realized that his feet were starting to feel damp, and he looked down to see that the blood spilling from his palms had begun to flood the area around._

 _In a panic, he tried to run. But as the blood level rose, his movements became more slowed and sluggish as his legs trudged through the blood. Eventually, he slipped, falling to his knees in the blood. He was able to keep himself from fully falling into the red flood by supporting himself with his arms, which had sunk elbow-deep into the blood._

 _He picked himself up, but not before his right hand clasped onto something. With all of his might, he tugged on the submerged object with all of his might, his right hand holding on tightly in a vice grip. Finally, he pulled it out._

 _It was an arm._

 _An arm that happened to be attached to a body that floated upward. To his shock, it was the Tiger-Tailed Fang who had been the first to fall in his escape. The Fang's black mask crumbled away, allowing the Faunus to look the boy in the eyes._

 _He then told the boy in an accusing voice, "Murderer."_

 _Suddenly, dozens of hands pushed out through the blood. They soon grabbed the boy and dragged him under. As he sank into the ocean of blood, Whitley gasped for air as the viscous red liquid began to fill his lungs._

 _Then he saw the figure of Yinsen standing above the blood._

 _He reached out for the doctor, begging him to lend a hand, to save his life._

 _But the man regarded his sinking form with a sneer of disgust._

 _Despite being submerged in blood, he heard the doctor's words._

" _I don't help murderers!"_

* * *

Whitley awoke with a scream. When he felt the chill desert air, he realized that he was not drowning. His heart was racing and his were wide and unfocused. He quickly unzipped the sleeping bag and shoved the nylon-cotton flap off of his person. The boy sat up in his unzipped bed, sweaty and breathing erratically.

He looked to his right and found that the GD box had not been disturbed. He looked to his left and saw that the knapsack was equally undisturbed. He looked around and noticed that it was quite dark, meaning that it was late at night. The stars twinkled in the night sky above, and the fracture moon hung high, providing some faint light in the sandy wasteland.

Whitley wiped the sweat from his face with his hands.

He then growled irritably before shouting furiously, "DAMN IT, ONE NIGHT! ONE NIGHT IS ALL I ASK FOR!"

He took a deep breath and composed himself. In minutes, he was calmer than he had been before. But the anger was still there. The anger, along with the anxiety and fear he had thought he long conquered.

Honestly, he didn't know who to feel angry at. He was angry at Vryolak and Savin. He was angry at his Father. He was angry at his sisters. He was angry at himself. Hell, he was angry at everybody.

But most of all, he also felt disgusted with himself. Disgusted at what he had witnessed and endured during his time in captivity. Disgusted that he hadn't able to save anybody, not even his own friend from death. But he also felt disgusted at the lives he had taken.

He felt nothing but anger, disgust, guilt, and shame.

With a resigned sigh, the boy laid back in his sleeping bag, not even bothering to zip back up. He didn't know what he'll see the next time he fell asleep, but he was sure that it wasn't going to be pleasant. He stared up at the star-filled sky.

Staring up into the vast expanse of space only reinforced how utterly insignificant he felt at this moment.

He may have escaped from the cave.

But he brought some things with him.

And he doubted that he would ever escape what had followed him from that cave.

* * *

 **All right, that there is the last chapter of 2019;**

 **I had wanted to write more, but I didn't have enough time, considering I'm leaving for Florida literally the day after Christmas.**

 **But don't worry, true believers, for another chapter will be published in January, with more content. In this chapter, Whitley will be found, bury the ring in Gulmira as well as discover a shocking bit of news in the village, too. All the while, he'll contemplate whether to build another armor, which he'll only do so once he hears of a certain web-swinging wonder from Vale.**

 **This is Nacoma23, wishing you all a happy and safe holiday season and a productive new year.**

 **Until then, stay classy. I'll be back in January.**

 **PEACE!**


	8. Coming Home, Part 1 of 2

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter Eight: Coming Home (Part 1)**

* * *

Whitley had no idea how long he had been walking. He knew he had started early in the morning, but he had no idea if he had been taking his desert stroll for a few hours or several more. The sun hung high in the air, blasting wave after wave of solar radiation onto Remnant, which he took as a sign that it was nearly the afternoon. He supposed that it could be late morning, too.

After walking in the desert for a while, one tended to lose all sense of time.

Unfortunately, it doesn't make one lose their other senses.

He could feel the heat scorching his skin, roasting him like he was walking in an oven. If only he wasn't wearing fatigues. He can feel and hear the desert wind, which slammed into him like a tempest, picking up sand that clung to his now dirtier clothes. He was also feeling hungry, very hungry; so hungry that it felt like he was starving. He also smelled a rather foul odor, one that seemed a myriad of various odors that ranged from drying sweat to long-dried blood.

A shame he couldn't use the water bottles to clean himself up. He needed that water to live.

Of all the deserts for Whitley to be captured in, it just had to be the one without any source of water, not even an oasis. The thought of a nice, refreshing shower at the end of his journey was all the motivation the boy needed to continue his trek through the Atreides.

If only he had something to eat, though.

Sometimes, he wondered if it was his lot in life to suffer. Sure, he was the scion of one of the world's wealthiest families, but it just happened to be the most dysfunctional one as well; with an overachieving and perfectionist like his oldest sister, an entitled and arrogant know-it-all like Weiss, and an emotionally-distant and negligent drunk of a mother.

Not to mention the amoral, greedy, manipulative, racist, and sociopathic shit-bag of an asshole that was his father!

 _Augh, Do NOT open that can of worms, Whitley!_ The boy told himself, knowing where such thoughts would lead to.

Negative thoughts lead to negative emotions, which are basically attractant to Grimm. Even if he had a device that can ward them off. But he'd rather not test his luck should any actual Grimm appear. He doubted he can outrun whatever sort of monsters inhabited this damned desert.

Especially now, given that he lacked the energy to even run. He hadn't been able to get much sleep last night. Whenever he fell asleep, he'd have nightmares, the kind that made it all that much harder to fall asleep. If he had to hazard a guess, he had at least three hours of sleep. He knew that wasn't healthy.

Still, now wasn't the time to catch up on sleep, not while the sun was still out. He just had to keep walking. Even if it took days, he won't stop walking until he found civilization or until civilization found him. It didn't matter to him if it were a town or a village, so long as they had food and a shower, and a connection to Anima's CCT network.

"Yes, after two months of total information deprivation, I'll be connected to the wider world again!" Whitley cheered with a very tired grin.

That grin faltered when he realized, "And I'm talking to myself, again..."

He was now starting to reconsider taking a short break. Maybe a few minutes of rest can calm him down. It wasn't like he was going to take a nap in the desert. A desert that just happened to be home to a million things that can kill him in an instant, aside from the creatures of Grimm. Things like poisonous scorpions, ravenous jackals, and murderous bandits.

 _On second thought, I'm making such good time, no need to stop now._ The boy reasoned to himself.

 _Actually, maybe I should pick up the pace._ He thought before doing so.

Whitley picked up the pace, now walking at a speed faster than before. He didn't know if it'll accomplish much, but he knew it'll take his mind off of the million different ways to die in the desert. As he walked further and further into the seemingly endless desert, he found himself distracted by his power walk. He paid no attention to what laid before him other than the horizon.

This lapse in awareness would prove detrimental. His toes came into contact with something he had not expected, causing him to lose his center of gravity and stumble onto the ground. He landed face-first with a soft thud in the sand, dirtying himself even more. The boy pushed himself up and spat sand out of his mouth.

He then growled lowly, "I fucking hate the desert..."

He rose to his feet and turned on his heel. He saw, much to his surprise, a small glint in the sand. There was something underneath the sand. He crouched down and dusted off the grainy particulate, revealing a metal bar underneath, though he suspected it was much larger than it appeared. He jumped to his feet and started wiping sand away with his right foot, and then took a few steps back as he did so. Within a minute, he found himself staring at an elongated bar of metal, which was connected to two separate bars.

 _Are these railroad tracks?_ He wondered.

He looked to his left and noticed that there were several similar indentations stretching far into the desert. He saw the same to his right. He considered the significance of this discovery and a spark of hope ignited within him. The presence of railroad tracks in this part of the desert meant that there were settlements nearby. Of course, he also considered the possibility that whatever town or village these tracks led to were possibly ghost towns. But there were also plenty of settlements that have long stood the arduous dangers of the Atreides.

 _Not to mention that a wooden shack beats sleeping out in the open._ The boy rationalize, having grown tired of nature.

With his mind made up, Whitley turned to his right and began following the railroad track. For hours, he trudged on, careful as to keep his attention on the tracks lest he lose his way. Eventually, the day wore on, the sun slowly made its ascent before steadily descending down onto the horizon. Even as the evening became night, the boy kept walking, in spite of his body trying to force him to stop. It was late at night when his body began to shut down, his willpower all but drained as his knees buckled beneath him. Eventually, he collapsed onto the cool desert sands.

As the dazed teen laid there in the sand, under the clear Animan night sky, he noticed something. Out in the distance, there was a small collection of lights. For an instant, he wondered if the stars had fallen onto the land. That speculation ended when a few of the lights began to grow, as though they were approaching him.

The last thing he saw, before sleep took him, was a brilliant and blinding light, with various shadowed figures approaching him.

And then there was darkness. For the young man, it was nothing but a single brief moment in the void, free of nightmares and completely vacant of dreams. In some respects, it was a welcome respite from the near-constant nightly terrors that had been plaguing his mind for months; a torturous mental experience that seemed to have been exacerbated by his recent escape.

But just as quickly as the darkness came, it soon dissipated, as the sounds of panicked voices shattered the silence like a hammer on glass.

But these voices were ones the boy did not recognize.

"Oh, my gods, he's moving again!"

"Hey, I think he's waking up!"

"Someone get the mayor!" Whitley heard an unfamiliar voice shout as he stirred from his slumber

He opened his eyes and saw, to his surprise, a wooden ceiling and walls. An ornate yet worn ceiling fan hung above, its blades spinning slowly, with three of its four light bulbs shining brightly. His head was rested on a pillow, and his body was tucked snugly into a bed. At the foot of the bed, he saw a lightly tanned woman dressed in casual clothing, over which she wore a white lab coat. She was also staring at him with an expression that was equal parts astonishment and, to his confusion, apprehension.

He moved slightly and tried to speak, but found that his throat was dry and scratchy. The woman moved over to his side and gently eased him back into bed.

"Don't speak just yet. I'll get you some water." She told him with a reassuring tone.

She walked over to a countertop at the back of the room and opened a cabinet, from which she pulled out a small plastic cup. She turned on a faucet, which spewed out a stream of water, which she then filled the cup with. She returned to his side and lifted his head.

"Open your mouth." She told him.

The boy opened his mouth, allowing the woman to pour the water into it.

Whitley felt the cold water impact his throat, which was both soothing and calming. After drinking lukewarm purified water from a bottle, cold tap water was a welcome change of pace. His throat now feeling better, the boy thanked the woman.

He then asked, "Where am I?"

The woman replied quickly, "I'm afraid I'm not the one to tell you that. Some of our people found you outside of the village and the mayor wants to speak to you first."

The boy raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked, "For what reason?"

"We just want to be sure you're not a danger to us." He heard an aged voice explain.

The woman and Whitley turned to an open doorway, where an elderly, dark-skinned man stood. He was dressed in loose-fitting robes, and he was supported by a wooden cane. He also had quite the beard in Whitley's opinion, a very long, white one that was neatly groomed. The boy assumed this man to be mayor of the village he now resided in. The elderly official walked in and looked to the woman.

"Thank you, doctor, I'll take it from here. Please, go see to your other patients." He told her.

The woman left without another word, but not before sending the boy a rather scrutinizing gaze. The man approached the side of the bed and pulled up a chair, which he then sat upon. The elderly man gazed upon the boy with a calculative stare, as though he were trying to ascertain whether he was a threat or not.

He asked with a very stern tone, "Who are you, boy?"

Unbothered by the man's tone and stare, Whitley replied, "Just a lone traveler who had lost his way."

"A traveler, you say? A woefully unprepared one, it would seem." The old man countered, "No one travels the desert without being fully prepared for it, which can mean that either you are a very suicidal idiot, or were you expecting someone to find you?"

Whitley was flabbergasted by the old man's words. He asked him, "What is it that you want from me?"

The old man raised a thick eyebrow and replied, "Oh, I just want to know who'd drifted into my home."

"Well, I wasn't lying when I said I'm lost. If you must know, I'm trying to find my way back home," Whitley told the man, careful to be as vague as possible.

He had to be sure that this man can be trusted before revealing his true identity.

"And where exactly is your home, young man?" The man inquired.

The bedridden boy replied, "Somewhere up north; _very_ up north."

"Would you say, Atlas?"

Whitley felt his chest tighten at the mention of his home kingdom. He fought the urge to frown, trying to keep his face neutral and collected.

With an even tone, he replied, "Possibly."

"More _probable_ than possible; you may have gotten a slight tan in the desert, but you're still paler than most people I know. Most people from Solitas have fairly pale complexions."

Whitley was starting to worry.

"What's more is that you have hair that's white as snow. There's only one family in all of Solitas with hair like that." The old man said.

Whitley felt his heart start to race as the man continued to connect the dots. He had no idea why the old man was stringing him along like this, as he obviously knew full well who he actually was. Which begged the question of what his intentions were? Did he intend to extort him? Ransom him?

His time with Yinsen might have taught him to be more trusting of people, but that didn't mean he should let his guard down.

The boy stared at the man and evenly asked, "You know who I am?"

The elderly official replied, "Yes. I do. We may be somewhat isolated from the rest of the world, but that doesn't make us ignorant. And speaking of the world... Tell me, Mr. Schnee, where in the world have you been... and how did you find yourself here, in Gulmira?"

Whitley sighed and replied, "I'm afraid it's a very long story... wait, did you just say 'Gulmira'?"

The man blinked and said, "Yes, this is Gulmira. I'm surprised you're even aware of our small village."

 _That can't be possible..._

Whitley had been told by Yinsen that Gulmira was located in the Atreides desert, being a small, humble village that had survived longer than most settlements in the unforgiving region. The people that lived there were simple and kind, he had been told, and they were among the few places where humans and Faunus truly lived as equals. He had thought the village was far from Vryolak's camp, hundreds of miles and thousands of steps away.

Never did he consider that the first settlement he'd find would be the doctor's home, of all places.

He had promised the doctor, as he lied dying, that he would bury his wedding ring in the village, with his family.

That is, if the man's family were even buried in the cemetery.

"Is something the matter, Mr. Schnee?" The mayor asked, slightly perturbed by the boy's sudden silence.

Whitley shook his head and answered, "Sorry, It's just I wasn't expecting to be here so soon. I knew someone who lived in Gulmira."

The mayor was surprised and asked, "Really? Who was it?"

"Ho Yinsen..."

"Wait, Dr. Yinsen is alive!" The old man exclaimed, nearly dropping his cane from shock.

Whitley frowned and said, " _Was_ alive..."

Upon hearing that statement, the old man deflated and sadly spoke, "I see... What happened to him?"

The boy hung his head low, gripped the hem of his blanket, and pitifully said, "He sacrificed himself for me... after saving my life..."

When he uttered those words, a flood of emotions rushed through the young Schnee; emotions that he had become quite familiar with in the desert, outside of his captor's camp.

It was the all too familiar mixture of shame, grief, disgust, and guilt.

"Are you sure you're alright, Mr. Schnee?" The mayor asked.

"Actually... Do you think I can some time to myself? I need to be alone right now." The boy implored.

The mayor frowned at seeing the boy so downtrodden. From how he heard the boy spoke of Yinsen, he and the doctor became close friends. He knew the boy needed time to grieve, to sort out his emotions. He can tell his story later.

For now, he'll let the boy be.

"Take all the time you need. Your belongings are located in the room next door, as is a shower. We have also set aside some clean clothes for you to wear. When you're ready, Doctor Drew will need to perform a check-up on you. For now, just rest." He told him.

He made his way to the door. The old man took one final glance at the boy, who had lowered his gaze onto his bed covers. He sighed and left the room, closing the door.

Now alone, Whitley gave fully gave into his grief. He cursed his inability to save the prisoners, who spent their last moments in agonizing pain. He was honestly disgusted with himself that he had been forced to take lives in his escape, even if they were violent extremists. But most of all, he grieved for the loss of his friend, Yinsen. The man had lost everything and he still went out of his way to help him. Yet, in spite of the brave face he kept up, the man was broken beyond all hope of recovery. Without his family, he had lost the will to live. And he still helped him.

He helped Whitley Schnee, an arrogant, boisterous, stubborn, and selfish brat who had spent most of his life disregarding the needs of other people, even his own friends and family; a family with a patriarch who has spent the better part of his adult life stomping on the rights of Faunus like Yinsen.

Yet, Yinsen still saved his life in spite of all that, despite having almost every reason to hate him. The doctor did something that his father had never done once in his life, protect him.

 _Now that I think about it, when has Father ever acted like one?_ Whitley realized as he tried to remember moments where Jacques Schnee had acted like a parent.

He found no such memories.

 _Who am I kidding? Happy, Rhodey, and Yinsen; each of them has been more a father to me than mine ever was... and now, I've lost one of them..._

With that startling realization, hot tears began falling from Whitley's eyes, staining the white satin sheets below.

He didn't even realize he was crying.

* * *

"All right, I think that's the last of them." Sitwell called after pulling his knife out of the head of an evaporating Grimm Corpse.

Sitwell can't explain what he was looking at. Months ago, a patrol bullhead reported that there was no activity in this area. The crew even had the video and photo evidence to back up their claims. Yet, somehow, he found himself standing in what appeared to have been some kind of camp, one that had belonged to some sort of Faunus extremist group. Whether this group had any ties to the White Fang, Sitwell did not know.

But the one thing he did know was that the Grimm did not destroy this camp.

All around him and his team laid the decimated remains of said camp. Charred bodies littered the landscape, some crumpled over and others lying flat on their backs. The smell of ash, dust residue, and burning and rotting meat permeated the air. What remained of the campsite is now just burning wooden poles, the flames dancing wildly in the wind. There was also what seemed to be landing pads, the supports of which had collapsed.

Sitwell knew full well that all of this destruction was not the work of the Grimm. But something had definitely attacked this camp.

"Spread out, search for survivors. I'll call in for recovery teams." He told his team, who promptly set out to fulfill their orders.

He returned to the bullhead and entered the cockpit. He pulled out the radio, switched it on, and spoke into the mic, "This is Bloodhound-01. Encampment located in Atreides Desert. Possible lead on subject codenamed Prince; Need recovery teams, and I want a few units to perform a five-mile perimeter sweep, for possible hostiles or even the hostage."

[ _Acknowledged, Agent Sitwell, and sending orders now; Recovery Team's ETA, 30 minutes. Good luck. Out]_

Sitwell replied, "Acknowledged; over and out."

He hung the mic and switched the radio. After exiting the cockpit, he joined his subordinates in searching for survivors. He stepped forward into what seemed to have been the center of the camp, where a large, strange machine was situated. It was burnt and heavily damaged, and there was a glass bowl at the top which had shattered, exposing a device that reminded the agent of a video projector.

Curious, he stepped over to the machine to inspect it further. Within seconds of his inspection, he found what appeared to be lettering on a metal panel, which had been covered over by a thin layer of soot. The agent wiped his hand across the panel to clear away the suit. When he saw what was buried under the soot, he felt his blood boil.

Painted on this metal panel was an acronym, one that he was quite familiar with.

"AIM..." He growled in anger.

It appeared that his informant was right; A.I.M. had indeed made a sale to an extremist group. It seemed that he had found the camp that had belonged to that group. All he needed to find out now was whether this was the same group that had kidnapped Whitley Schnee.

If that turned out to be the case, his main concern was whether the young man was still their captive or had escaped.

He just hoped the boy wasn't dead.

* * *

Whitley wondered if he had died and gone straight to heaven, because that shower was just so divine.

It may not have been the most luxurious shower in the world, nor the cleanest, but he found he didn't care once he felt the warm, running water upon his skin. As he scrubbed the muck, soot, and sand off of his body, he felt all the stress of the past few months slowly drip away and sink into the drain with the filth. It honestly surprised him that he missed taking showers as much as he did. But spending months cut off from the most basic of amenities tend to make one appreciate them more.

 _Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as the old saying goes._ The boy thought. _Though, it also showed that I can actually take a shower with arc reactor._

After taking a 20 minute shower, the boy quickly dried himself off and dressed himself. Just as the mayor had told him, there was clean set of clothes for him to wear. To his surprise, it was just a plain white t-shirt and a pair of denim jeans. If he had been the same person he was months ago, he would have discarded them and asked for something better. But as he was now, he'll gladly wear them. Clothes are clothes, no matter how expensive they are. Their only purpose was to keep people from exposing themselves to the world.

After he put the t-shirt on, he sat down on a chair in the corner of the room. He allowed a moment to compose himself, to calm his nerves before he met with the doctor. As he tried to calm himself, he noticed a body mirror on the wall adjacent to him. Not only was this the first time in months he had taken a shower, he realized, but it was the first time he was able to look at himself in the mirror.

He rose from his seat and approached the mirror.

The second he stood before the mirror, he blinked and let out a rather subdued, "Whoa..."

 _Is that really me?_ He wondered in awe.

Whitley was aware that he had grown during his time in that cave, but he never thought he grew this _much_. For a moment, he actually thought he was looking at another person rather than his own reflection. His hair had grown out, no longer short and straight, but now it was longer, more shaggy and messy. His face had lost most of the baby fat, giving him a more defined and angular jawline. He did notice he some bags under his eyes, no doubt from the lack of sleep, but he can work around. He _will_ work around that.

But those changes paled in comparison to his body.

He knew he had a growth spurt, but he never thought it was this dramatic. Before, he was taller than Weiss by a few good inches. Now, he was about a head taller than her, maybe even nearing Winter's height. He'll probably be taller than his father by the time he's twenty, he theorized.

But it was not only his height that had changed, but also his physique. He used to be a slender and very weak boy, but now his body was lean and fit. His arms, once thin and noodle-like, were now toned with small, compact muscles that rippled when he flexed his arms. His chest, to his shock, was so muscular that he could actually see the muscle through the thin white fabric of his shirt, with the bright blue light of the arc reactor shining through it.

Curious, he lifted his shirt slightly, to look at his stomach. His eyes nearly bugged out when he saw that his stomach was toned, having what looked to be the beginnings of a six-pack. Given more time, it could become more pronounced.

 _Holy shit... I'm hot!_ Whitley thought excitedly, a small, dumb grin on his face.

Once, he had never cared for physical exercise, preferring to build the muscles in his brain rather than the ones in his arms. Now that he saw himself in the mirror, he can understand why people go through so much strenuous exercise, if this kind of body was the end result.

Whitley took that moment to admire his new body, flexing his arms a bit and doing a few little poses. Then he strutted back and forth, acting like a model on the runway. So lost he was in appreciating his new physique that he lost all awareness of his surroundings. So focused he was on his own reflection that he didn't notice the doctor enter the room.

His reverie was cut short when he heard the Doctor cough into her hand.

He nearly stumbled in fright when he heard that cough. He looked over at the Doctor, and realizing that she had watched him goof around, felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

He chuckled nervously before asking, "How long were you standing there?"

The doctor smiled and replied, "Since you started strutting around like a supermodel."

"Oh," The boy dumbly spoke before asking, "Uh, would you please not tell anyone about that?"

"Don't worry; you've got total doctor-patient confidentiality. Speaking of which, Mr. Schnee, I need to perform a physical on you, just to make sure that you're healthy and didn't suffer any long term physical effects from your captivity." She told him.

"If you'll follow me back to your bed, we can get the tests started... or would you rather just stay here and keep playing Remnant's Next Top Model?" She cheekily asked before walking away.

Seeing that he had no other choice, Whitley followed after his newest physician. Once he returned to the other room, he sat himself up on his bed. The doctor picked up a clipboard, before she took a seat and placed it next to him, which she sat upon. She then took out a pen from her lab coat and pressed it against the paper on her clipboard.

"Mr. Schnee, My name is Doctor Amy Drew, before we start these tests; I just want to reassure that you're perfectly safe. These tests are just meant to ensure that you haven't suffered any long-term effects of any physical and sexual abuse from your time as a captive."

The boy gagged, which Dr. Drew noticed, causing her to ask in concern, "Are you alright, son?"

Whitley nodded, "No, I'm fine, I just threw up a little when you mentioned sexual abuse. By the way, they didn't do anything remotely like _that_ to me."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Schnee, but that is a mandatory part of the tests. Even if you weren't abused, I still have to be sure. If I simply took your word for it, then I wouldn't be doing my job right as a doctor."

The boy frowned, already uncomfortable with the prospect of answering questions like that. Drew saw his crestfallen expression and told him, "Don't worry, that part of the exam mainly involves answering a few questions and just taking a blood sample, so that we can test for any possible sexually transmitted infections. It's all routine, I assure you. Help me help you, do you understand?"

With a hesitant nod, Whitley responded, "Yes, I understand."

"Good. Let's get started with the most immediate and concerning question." She told him.

"Which is what, exactly?" He asked.

"What in the name of the gods is that bright light on your chest?!" She frantically asked, pointing her pen at the Arc Reactor.

Whitley looked down at his chest, right where the reactor was located. He probably should've told her about that first.

He told her, "Okay, fair enough. Well, it's a little something called the Arc Reactor."

"Okay... but what is an Arc Reactor, exactly?" She asked after writing that tidbit down on her clipboard.

"Well, it's what's keeping me alive right now." He answered.

"Yeah, but how, though?" She asked, as her eyes were still transfixed on the glowing circle.

The boy sighed and pinched his brow. He had had a feeling that this particular discussion was going to keep them here all day. He never imagined that a medical examination would be more uncomfortable than being an actual hostage.

 _Just bear with it, Whitley. You've literally gone through worse than this._

* * *

Sitwell pinched his nose in irritation as the last of the bodies were zipped up into body bags. As he feared, they have found no survivors. But as the bodies were those of Faunus, it appeared that this camp was indeed home to a group of Faunus extremists. Their grimm-inspired masks nearly led him to assume they were White Fang, until he discovered that said masks were not covered in soot, but were indeed black in color.

Given the facts, he can only conclude that they were possibly a group that had splintered off from the Fang.

What's more, they found more bodies in the labyrinthine caverns of the mine, and some of them appeared to have been prisoners. According to the team that found the corpses, they appeared to have been burnt alive in their cells, an act that disgusted the agent to his core. But what truly disturbed him was that most of the prisoners were Faunus.

Suddenly, the idea of a Fang splinter group was sounding less far-fetched.

Sitwell frowned and thought pitifully, _If only we had known..._

But despite all the horrors they've discovered, there was a silver lining to all of this tragedy. While many corpses have been found, none of them had been identified as Whitley Schnee, which gave the agent hope that the boy was still alive. Whether he had escaped or was still a captive he did not know, but the boy was most likely alive.

Now all they had to was find him.

 _Which is easier said than done._ He thought morosely.

 _It took us more than two months to find this place, how long will it take until we find the kid._

"Agent Sitwell, sir, there's a call for you!"

The agent turned to see a younger agent, an anxious rookie named Woo, sprinting towards him, running as though the Grimm were hot on his heels. When the man reached his superior he gave a very rushed salute, which Sitwell reciprocated with a crisp one of his own. The younger agent took a deep breath so that he may compose himself, and to bring air back into his lungs, and then told his commander.

"Sir, we just received a transmission. The speaker wanted to speak to you personally."

"Thank you, Woo. I'll go and take the call. Go find Agent Buckland and tell her she's in charge until I get back."

Woo saluted Sitwell again before leaving to perform his new task.

Sitwell walked away from the camp and went to the small outpost the recovery teams had set up. He passed by dozens of agents as they scurried about from tent to tent, either completing different tasks or carrying bodies into the medical tent for identification. He eventually reached the main tent, where their communications equipment was located. He approached the table where the main radio was located, relieved the agent manning it, and took the mic.

"This is agent Sitwell, Mistral Special Intelligence Service. Identify yourself and state the purpose of your message." He commanded to the person on the other end of the line.

 _[Agent Sitwell, my name is Hyacinth, and I am the mayor of Gulmira. I was told by MSIS headquarters that you were the one I needed to contact, so they gave me the frequency for your team's radio channel. I have some news that you might find helpful to your mission.]_

"All right, Mr. Mayor, you have my full attention. What information do you have for me?"

 _[Well, it's not information, but more a person-of-interest. Last night, some of our villagers found a person on the outskirts of Gulmira; A person that you have been spending the better part of two months looking for.]_

Sitwell blinked and felt his voice die in his throat. After a few seconds to process what he had just heard, he found his voice again and asked in disbelief, "Um, sir, are you telling me that you found someone you _believe_ to be Whitley Schnee?"

 _[No, Agent Sitwell, We know it's Whitley Schnee whom we found.]_

It had been a day of many startling revelations for the man. In the span of just under ten hours, he had found a phantom camp littered with the corpses of terrorists, discovered evidence that a secretive international crime syndicate had supplied said terrorists, and now he had just been told that the boy he's been looking for had been found literally the night before. This was all just too perfect to be true, in his opinion.

 _But then again, I'm the absolute last person to complain about the absurdity of life..._

With a resigned sigh, he asked, "Can you please tell me where I can find Gulmira on the map?"

* * *

"There, we're finished with your breathing. See that wasn't as hard as you thought, was it, Mr. Schnee?" Dr. Drew remarked as she placed the stethoscope back into her medical bag.

"I admit it was... _tolerable_." Whitley admitted, honestly surprised by how quick the physical was.

It was still awkward as all hell, especially the interview portion, but it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. In fact, most of the questions he answered were mostly about the Arc Reactor, which the doctor kept gushing about. She likened it to one of the most significant medical and technological advancements in Remnant's history, and opinion that Whitley shared, in his humble opinion.

As for his cauterized wound, he was pleased to know that it had not been infected. In fact, the Doctor was impressed that he had been able to treat his own

"Okay, now that's out of the way, let's get that blood sample." Drew said before retrieving a sterile syringe and medical gloves from her bag, as well as a small gauze swab and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Whitley held his forearm out to the doctor. She opened the bottle and placed the swab over it, which she then held upside down, dousing the small swab with alcohol. She dabbed the swab on the boy's forearm, leaving it clean for the syringe. She took hold of the syringe, tapped the needle with her fingers to test its sturdiness, and brought it to the prepared injection site on his forearm.

"All right, all you're gonna feel is a little prick." She calmly reassured the boy, who fought the urge to roll his eyes.

This wasn't the first time he's had a needle punctured into his skin and he doubted it'll be the last.

The doctor pressed the needle into the boy's skin, only to notice something odd.

"Okay..." She spoke in confusion.

"What is it?" He asked.

"It's nothing; you just have really thick skin is all." She replied as she applied more pressure into the injection.

He felt a short but slight pinch seconds later.

With the needle now puncturing the boy's surprisingly dense skin and muscle, the doctor pulled the syringe plunger back, filling the small vial with her patient's blood. She pulled out a small vial and pierced its plastic cap with the syringe. She then pressed down on the syringe plunger, pushing the blood through the needle and into the vial. She disposed of the needle in a nearby container marked for disposal.

But Whitley did not notice this. His interest was focused on his forearm, where the syringe had been injected. It took several seconds for the needle to pierce his skin, and according to the doctor, a considerable amount of her strength to do it. An act that should have taken but a second and the most minimal strength proved to be anything but.

It made the boy wonder if there was something different about him. He knew he had bulked up, but the needle should've pierced his skin in a second. He knew for a fact that he had no aura, as he never unlocked it. So what was it that made such an easy-to-perform task so hard to finish?

That's when he remembered his cauterized wound. While it was indeed a bullet that had grazed him, the wound itself was not as bad as it should have been. In fact, while the skin had been cut, it barely cut into his muscles. While still painful, it was still a relatively easy patch-up job.

But it was probably nothing. It was just his mind playing his tricks on him... a mind that went out of its way to torment him with every possible chance. Like when he tries to sleep, or when he thinks back to all the cruelty he witnessed in the cave, or all of the terrorists he probably killed, the people he was unable to save; or whenever he was reminded of his failure to save the life of the man who not only saved his life and soul, but became his greatest mentor...

After placing the vial into her medical bag, Doctor Drew returned her attention to her patient. But when she saw the boy, she immediately became concerned. The boy was simply staring off into space, his eyes blank, unfocused, and completely glazed over, as though his mind was somewhere else. She cautiously approached the boy and softly nudged him.

She softly spoke, "Mr. Schnee? Mr. Schnee?"

He continued to stare at nothing.

"Whitley," She said, using his first name.

And just like that, life returned to the boy's eyes.

He looked at the doctor saw she was staring at him with a concerned look.

He asked, "Is there something wrong?"

She blinked and asked, "Do you remember the last few seconds?"

"Yeah, I was watching you put all your equipment away. Why do you ask?"

She frowned and spoke, "No, it's nothing."

She was lying, of course. She may be a medical doctor, but she had some knowledge of psychology. She had seen that look before, in some of the hunters and ex-soldiers she had treated. The thousand-yard stare, one of the tell-tale signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. She knew that the boy was likely to develop the condition, given his situation and especially his age. But she was no psychiatrist, not like her late friend Cho. The boy needed help; the kind of help that was trained to deal with trauma.

 _I'll be making a note of that in the medical report... a very big one._ She promised herself.

"All right, we're finished. Now, I believe the mayor wanted to speak with you. Go gather your belongings. The town hall is located in the center of the village. You can't miss it."

"Thank you, doctor." Whitley said, rising up from the bed.

Before he left the room, he asked the doctor. "Doctor, you wouldn't happen to know where the village cemetery is, do you."

"Yeah..." She unsurely replied, "It's on the right side of the village. Why do you ask?"

"It's not what you think," He said, "It's just I made a promise to a good friend to visit it, to pay my respects."

"Who is this friend?" She asked.

"His name was Yinsen." He replied, "Again, thank you, doctor."

He left the room without looking back.

If he had, he would have noticed the shocked look on the doctor's face.

* * *

After entering the clinic desperate and aimless, Whitley left the building with resolve and purpose. The knapsack which contained the journals, the Grimm Deterrent, and Yinsen's ring was slung over his shoulder, the bag swaying with every step he took. As he walked toward the center of the village, where the mayor waited for him, he took in the sight of the settlement. Suffice to say, he was a little disheartened by what he saw.

All throughout the neighborhood, dozens of people, human and Faunus scurried in and out of their homes. Many of these domiciles had holes in their walls, with many appearing to have been caused by explosives. When he really focused, he saw what appeared to be bullet holes, as well. It seemed that Vryolak and Savin were not content with just destroying Yinsen's life; they also had had to destroy the village the man had devoted himself to caring for.

The residents were piling up boxes, luggage, and even furniture on the dirt-covered road. Parked outside of each home were transports of varying design, most of which were horse drawn carts with a few trucks and cars here and there. Whitley wondered what was making these people leave their homes. Most of all, he wondered what Yinsen would think if he saw his home like this.

He knew what the doctor would have felt though; Devastation at seeing his beloved home becoming a ghost town.

"Hey, kid, watch where you're going!"

Whitley stopped dead in his tracks, nearly avoiding a passing horse carriage.

As the carriage wheeled away, its driver turned back in his seat and shook his fist at the boy, all while angrily shouting, "Look where you walking, jackass!"

Before Whitley was able to retort, he remembered he still had somewhere else to be. He resumed his journey to the Village square. But even as he walked, he was unable to keep his thoughts from returning to the village. It felt wrong, in his opinion. It was horrible that these people were being forced to flee from their homes, no doubt out of fear of Vryolak and Savin returning to finish the job.

He wondered if the people would stay if they knew what had happened to Vryolak. Savin may have escaped punishment, but he doubted the Snake Faunus was that petty to destroy a dead man's village. At least, Whitley hoped that was so. Of the two, Savin was the one whose actions were harder to predict.

Still, if they heard that Vryolak was dead, would that make them stay?

 _The better question is would they_ want _to stay?_ He wondered.

Gulmira's fate ultimately became the only thing the boy thought about as he walked. With each house he passed, he saw each and every villagers resigned acceptance of their situation. Young and old, Faunus and human, each and every face he saw carried the same hopelessness. It was a feeling that he had become quite familiar with at some points during his captivity.

Eventually, he reached the town hall. As he expected, the building, which was three floors tall, was falling apart like the rest of the village. The walls were scarred with pockmarks and bullet holes, and the telltale sign of explosions were found everywhere. Many of the windows were shattered as well, the glass fragments littering the dried, sandy ground below. In fact, one of the walls had actually collapsed. The only part of the building that nearly undamaged was the stoop that led directly to the entrance where the main door was once located.

 _Just what the hell happened in this village?_ The boy couldn't help but wonder.

He walked up the steps and entered the building. Once he was inside, he frowned. He thought the building looked bad on the outside, but it was much worse on the inside. The main hallway was littered with debris, the carpet was torn in some places, and the walls looked close to collapsing any minute. The interior looked so fragile he was worried that the building might collapse on him if he took another step.

But he still had to meet with the mayor. With much hesitance, he strolled slowly through the hallway in search of the elected official. After the first few steps, he heard a faint voice that he recognized as the mayor's. Following the sound of man's voice, the boy found himself steadily reaching the source. With each step, the voice increased in volume, telling him he was getting closer.

Soon, he found himself standing before an open doorway, leading to a small, official-looking room. Sitting at a desk inside the room, engaging in a conversation on an old military transceiver radio, was the mayor. As he spoke, the mayor noticed the boy standing in the hallway.

"He's here." He said to the person on the other end.

The old man beckoned the Schnee to come inside and approach him. Whitley acquiesced to the man's demands and entered the room and quickly approached the antiquated, wooden desk. The old man retracted the receiver from his ear and held it out to the boy.

Whitley took the receiver and placed it against his ear. He spoke unsurely into it, "Hello?"

 _[Mr. Schnee, I'm Agent Jasper Sitwell, Mistral Special Intelligence Service.]_

Despite himself, the Schnee inwardly snorted at the man's first name; _Really,_ Jasper _? And I thought my parents hated me..._

Humor was quickly replaced by sudden realization. _Wow, that sounded way sadder than it should have been._

Shaking those thoughts away, Whitley spoke again to the agent, "Agent Sitwell, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

 _[Your return home, as it were. Mayor Hyacinth was kind enough to inform us of your arrival in Gulmira. I wanted to tell you that I will be arriving within the hour to pick you up.]_

"Thank you, Agent Sitwell. I can't begin to tell you just how relieving it is to hear you say that." Whitley told him, though the agent's imminent arrival made him worried.

 _[You're very welcome, Mr. Schnee. Until then, just sit back and take it easy. You're coming home, son.]_

 _Home..._

Whitley fought the urge to frown at the mention of home.

"Thank you, sir. I look forward to your arrival." He coolly replied before ending the communication.

His tone was not missed by Hyacinth, who raised a concerned eyebrow.

The boy placed the receiver on the desk and took a seat. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, his mind racing with a million thoughts.

The old man asked in concern, "Is everything all right, son? Are you feeling okay?"

"Honestly, I've no gods-damned idea what to feel. On one hand, I'm finally returning to Solitas. But on the other, well, I still have business I need to finish here, in Gulmira."

"And what business do you need to finish here, my boy?"

Whitley said nothing as he pulled up his knapsack, which he put on his lap. He opened it and reached inside. Seconds passed as he fished around for the one item that was the reason for his coming to Gulmira, albeit his arrival was much sooner than he expected. He smiled when his fist wrapped around it. He pulled his fist out of the bag, the small object fully secure in the palm of his hand. He reached over and gently placed the small golden ring on the table's hard wooden surface.

"A ring, that's what brings you to Gulmira?" The mayor asked in disbelief.

Whitley shook his head, "It's not just any ring. It was Yinsen's wedding band. Before he died, he gave it to me. He asked that I bury it with his family and I gave him my word."

Hyacinth's eyes lit up and he asked, "You're not pulling my leg, are you. Are you sure that Yinsen, with his dying breath, gave you his wedding ring, one of his most treasured possessions, and asked you to bury it?"

The boy blinked and confusedly replied, "That is what I said, yes."

The old man sighed and leaned back in his chair. He wiped his hand across his experienced brow and groaned, "Well, this just got more complicated..."

Hyacinth took the ring and pocketed it in his pants for safekeeping. He then rose up, his cane supporting him as he stood.

He told the boy, "Come with me. There's someone you need to meet."

The tone of his voice told Whitley there was no room for negotiation.

The old man walked, his legs moving as fast they can for a man of his age.

He rose from his own seat and joined the mayor for his sudden stroll. The two left the office and entered the hallway, where the old man motioned the younger one to follow him outside. They exited the town hall, their eyes greeted with the sight of the rapidly depopulating village. They walked down the steps and turned right onto a dirt road. As they walked, Whitley felt compelled to ask a question that had been bugging him since he saw the village.

"Sir... can you tell me why everyone is leaving the village?" He asked with some reluctance.

Hyacinth frowned and replied, "I'm afraid what you're seeing are the final moments of a dying village, my young friend."

"How do you mean?"

"After the attack, our village was besieged by the Grimm. We had Hunters for a while, but once the money stopped coming in, the younger ones left. The few that stayed were older and experienced enough, but they weren't invincible. The very last of them was killed two days ago, right after the village got spooked by a giant cloud of smoke."

Upon hearing about the smoke cloud, Whitley felt his heart drop, knowing full well he was responsible for that one. He didn't mean to put the people into such a panic that it attracted the Grimm.

"And now they're leaving for the safety of the big cities?" He assumed.

"That was happening long before the Grimm Attacks. Most of the young people left our village to work in the city. The last two months have simply nailed the final nail in the coffin for Gulmira. If anything, I'm glad many of our people have decided to move, if it means it'll save their lives as well as their families." Hyacinth said with a resigned tone.

"And what about you, Mr. Hyacinth, what will you do?" Whitley asked, genuinely concerned for the elderly mayor.

"I'm 80 years old, Mr. Schnee. I've lived a full life. I've lived here my whole life and I am going to die here, too... and nothing can change my mind."

Whitley knew that he had no chance in convincing the old man to move out. From the resolve in his voice, it was clear that he was dead-set on dying in his home. A home that is now beset by the Grimm and now has no hunters to defend said home. He thought back to the Grimm Deterrent Box he had in his knapsack.

 _Maybe I should give it to him; it might help buy him a few more years of peace..._

It had served its purpose for him, and while he was tempted to try and have it mass-produced, especially since he had memorized the design. But its very existence has also created many potential problems. That first of these problems were the thousands of Hunters that said device would put out of work if everyone in Remnant had one...

 _Then again, considering the current crop of Hunters, it might not be so bad... No, my personal feelings have no say in the matter._

The second potential problem was his Father. Knowing Jacques Schnee, the man will no doubt try and have their R&D department tamper with the design; with the intention to make it more expensive and run mostly on dust, rather than solar and lunar energy. After all, what profits can a company like the SDC make with technology that can be powered by free, renewable energy for years?

 _Well, other than tech support, I can't think of anything._

The third potential problem was actually less severe in its ramifications. The problem was if people would actually believe someone built something that can actually keep the Grimm away. If anything, it sounded like the ramblings of a mad man. He wouldn't be surprised if people laughed right in his face at such a notion.

He looked at the old mayor and wondered if he'd believe him. He'll ask later, after the man had introduced him to whomever it was that he had to meet.

Curious, he asked Hyacinth, "Sir, this person we're meeting, who are they?"

"See for yourself, since we've arrived." The old man said before pointing ahead

Whitley followed the man's finger and saw, to his surprise, a small but very old playground. The miniature park had all the familiar trappings, such as slide, seesaws, a jungle gym, and a swingset. Shockingly, there were only two people present in the entire park. The first person was an elderly woman in casual clothes suitable for the desert, with wrinkly, tan skin and grey hair. The second figure, sitting in a swingset some distance away, was a small child, barely tall enough to go past his knee by his guess. The little girl was dressed in a white dress, and had short black hair that reached all the way to her neck, and atop her head he can make out two cat ears.

 _Who am I supposed to meet?_

The woman noticed the two new arrivals and walked over to them.

"Mr. Mayor, are you here to pick her up?" She asked.

"Yes and no." He replied before motioning to the Schnee, "I've brought someone who I think she'd like to meet"

The woman looked the boy over and said incredulously, "Isn't he the boy we found yesterday? Why would she want to see him?"

"He knew Yinsen."

The woman's eyes nearly bulged for a second before relaxing.

"I see..." She breathed before telling the boy, "Well, go talk to her."

Whitley stared incredulously at the two senior citizens, wondering just why they had brought him to speak to a child. While he wanted to object, he was still indebted to these people and to rebuke their wishes would be disgraceful. Not to mention that the expressions on their faces showed that they won't take no for an answer. Without any other choice, he took a deep breath and stepped forth to meet with this child.

As he got closer, he noticed a few details that he had noticed before. The girl was quiet, not even letting out a small giggle or sniffle, and she wasn't even using the swing set, just sitting on it, with her feet dangling inches above the ground. But what shocked him most were her arms, which were both grasping the rope, and he saw that they were bandaged up. Had she been hurt in some way?

Once he was within a few inches of her, the little girl's cat ears twitched, indicating she had heard him. But she didn't turn to face him. He had no idea how to talk to children, so he opted to just open with a generic greeting.

"Hi," He greeted with a friendly tone, "My name is Whitley. What's yours?"

The girl answered in a hushed voice, "Toni..."

Whitley blinked at the answer and thought _, Toni? Like my grandmother? I know she was a famed scientist, but who'd name their child..._

That's when he remembered something. For the last two months, he had come to know a man who had been a great admirer of his grandmother. Yinsen, his friend and mentor, had told him that he was such a fan of his grandmother that he had named his daughter after her...

Whitley's eyes widened as he realized whom he was speaking to.

This girl was Yinsen's daughter.

He breathed in and exhaled. This wasn't going to be easy.

He affected a friendly tone again and replied, "It's nice to meet you, Toni..."

Now comes the hard part.

"I'm a friend of your dad."

The little girl tightened the grip on the swing ropes and started trembling. She turned her head to look at Whitley, revealing her light purple eyes to him. Whitley had to keep himself from frowning when he saw the look on her face. The look in her eyes, it was something that should not be seen on someone as young as her. Her eyes, which should be hopeful and curious, were dull, lifeless, and so icy cold that it felt like he was staring into a corpse's eyes.

"You know daddy?" She asked, her small voice shaking with desperate hope.

"Uh... yeah, I know him." Whitley answered, despite the hesitance he felt.

"Where is he?"

Whitley took a few seconds to form a response. "Well, he... he..."

There was now a sliver of hope in her eyes. Whitley saw this and cursed himself for having to tell this little girl that her father was dead.

With a shaky voice, he told her, "He, well... He had to go do something really special and he, uhm... he wanted me to come and check up on you."

"When is he coming back?"

Never before in his life had Whitley felt like such trash. Here he was, talking to this little girl who had lost everything and he was trying to lie right to her face; even if it was meant to spare her from a terrible and gut-wrenching truth. He was lower than trash.

"He..." He tried to find the right words.

He took one look and saw that the girl was now hanging onto his every word.

 _It'll hurt, but she deserves to know the truth._

"I'm sorry, Toni... but your dad's not coming back." He said.

"Is he with my mommy and brother?" She asked.

Whitley couldn't bring himself to say it. Instead, he nodded his head.

Toni looked at him for a few seconds, as though she were hoping he was lying. When she realized he was not, she felt tears form in her eyes. Her lip quivered, her hands shook, and then finally, the dam burst as hot tears poured down her cheeks. She lowered her head, not wanting to stare at the boy any longer.

As he cried, Whitley felt something tug at his heartstrings. For an instant, he saw another child in her place. A Child of about seven years of age, with white hair and tearful blue eyes; a little boy who had felt like his whole world had shattered and that he had been abandoned by the people he loved; A boy who had lost all hope in the fundamental goodness of people.

 _She's like me..._

He may not have had someone there for him in that moment, but Toni will.

"Do you want me to stay and sit with you?" He asked.

The little girl didn't raise her head but nodded nonetheless.

Whitley took hold of the other swing and sat on it, his feet planted firmly on the ground. The two sat there, on that swingset, for as long as the little girl cried. Neither said anything as the minutes passed by. Whitley didn't what he can do, but this was the most that he can do. He knew he still had business to attend to and that he had to explain his story to Sitwell when he arrived, but he didn't care how long he had to sit here, so long as his friend's daughter didn't feel alone in her grief.

Mayor Hyacinth watched the scene with a resigned sadness.

Poor Toni had lost so much at such a young age. Her mother was dead, killed by a fire started by extremists. Her brother too was dead, after he had carried her away from the fire despite being horribly burnt himself. Now, it was confirmed her father had passed as well, leaving her with no family left in the world.

That is, until the young Schnee came.

"Why did you bring him to see Toni?" His fellow elder asked.

"Yinsen imparted his wedding ring to him, to be buried with his family. It was his last will." He replied.

She gasped in shock and quietly exclaimed, "You mean Yinsen invoked that old tradition?"

"I doubt it was his intention, as he probably believed his whole family dead, but yes." Hyacinth replied.

There was an old custom in Gulmira, one that dated back to the village's founding. It had been long forgotten by the younger generations, but the town's older residents were well aware of it. As they weren't actually aligned with the Kingdom of Mistral, they were free to follow all their old laws and traditions.

One such custom was the one that Yinsen had invoked by passing his wedding ring to Whitley on his death bed. While he had not intended to do so, but by handing his most cherished possession to the boy, the doctor had essentially named him as the inheritor of his all his responsibilities. There will be paperwork, of course, as that was a commonality in every culture; He also knew that when Agent Sitwell arrived, he'd have to be informed of this sudden development, as well as the boy.

While not meaning to do so, Yinsen had essentially named Whitley Schnee as his daughter's legal guardian.

He may not be able to raise the girl herself, due to his age, but he was now responsible for her life.

He can only hope that he accepted such a responsibility.

* * *

 **Okay, it is now 2020! We have finally entered the third decade of the new millennium!**

 **But that's not important. What's more important is that you probably want to hear more about this story. While I can't share any significant details that count as spoilers, I can confirm that Whitley is now, according to Gulmira's traditions, the legal guardian of young Toni. Obviously, he is too young to raise her himself, but he does know two very kind and compassionate people who have been trying to start a family... Oh, spoilers! Sorry.**

 **Another thing I can give away is this: Next month, there will be two chapters. The first is the follow-up to this chapter, as well as the end of this story arc. The second chapter will feature a three week time-skip, in which we see Whitley's first days as the armored avenger.**

 **I am going to try and increase the number of chapters released this year, so that this can catch up to Amazing Jaune Arc.**

 **Oh, and in response to a question about my dog: His name is Hutch, and he's a mixed breed. Just don't know what a mix of, that is.**

 **Anyway, see you all next month!**


	9. Coming Home, Part 2 of 2

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter Eight: Coming Home (Part 2)**

* * *

The Funeral started an hour after Agent Sitwell had arrived. Out of respect, he postponed Whitley's return to Argus so that the boy may attend. Sitwell, out of courtesy, chose to attend the service as well. He owed it to the man for not being able to save his life, as well as those of the other prisoners. The agent looked over at the young Schnee, who stood still as a statue as the mayor conducted burial rites.

Hyacinth had informed him upon his arrival of the recent development regarding the fate of young Toni Ho, and how the boy was now effectively her legal guardian. The two men agreed to discuss the matter with the boy after the service, along with the girl's current caregiver, Hydrangea.

But for now, he will stand silently and pay his respects.

As for the Schnee, his mind was focused entirely on the service.

He was currently lamenting the fact that not many people had come to the funeral. He had thought there would have been a larger crowd. But with much of the village close to being deserted, only a handful of people came to Yinsen's burial. Still, it was good to know that these people cared enough to momentarily cease their moving to pay respect to the man.

As per tradition, they were dressed in white, the color of mourning in their culture. He himself was dressed in white as well, wearing a white tunic given to him by the mayor, who stood close to the recently-unburied grave belonging to Cho Ho. Little Toni stood next to him, dressed in a white robe, her little hands rubbing the tears from her eyes. Next to her, the woman who had served as her caretaker- whose name is Hydrangea as Whitley learned- tried to soothe the mourning girl, to no avail. The small child's cries were testing the strength of the gathered mourners' ability to stay stoic, her tears nearly bringing them to tears.

They tried to focus on the mayor, who was nearing the end of the burial rites. "From dust, we are born, and it is to dust, we are returned. We do not fear death, for all are reborn from dust."

The teen genius had never been religious, or spiritual for that matter. He oftentimes considered himself an atheist. But as he listened to Hyacinth read Yinsen's last rites, the man's voice carried those words with such confidence that he nearly found himself believing in more than science fact.

"The soul shall ascend, to the plain where all are equal. With these words, we return Ho Yinsen to Mother Remnant. So say we all?" Hyacinth asked as he finished the rite.

"So say we all." The mourners said, Whitley as well, out of respect for his friend.

Hyacinth nodded and turned to Whitley, "Mr. Schnee, would you please place the ring on top of the casket?"

Without uttering a single word, Yinsen walked next to the grave and stretched arm out above the wooden coffin. He opened is fist and dropped the ring. The golden wedding band landed on the hard-wooden surface of the coffin with a small thud.

Whitley smiled sadly, thankful to have fulfilled the dying wish of a good man. While his body may not be buried with his wife and son, the boy was glad he was able to reunite a small part of Yinsen with them.

 _You can rest now, my friend... and thank you, for everything._ He thought as stray tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

 _Welcome home..._

"And may the Gods grant his soul eternity..." Hyacinth prayed, ending the burial.

And like that, the small crowd of mourners began to dissipate. They each took their time in giving Toni their condolences, as well as to thank the young man who had helped give her father a proper burial. Soon, the only people standing at the grave were Hyacinth, Hydrangea, Sitwell, Toni, and Whitley.

Sitwell looked to Hyacinth and asked, "Mr. Mayor, would you please lead me to your home? We have much to discuss."

"Agreed, Agent Sitwell..." The old man spoke, "we still have that _matter_ we need to discuss."

Sitwell nodded his and said, "Of course. Though, I believe we should postpone until _everyone_ involved is ready to talk."

Hyacinth agreed with the younger man's suggestion and promptly motioned him to follow him. The two men walked off, to the mayor's home, so that they may prepare for the coming discussion, as well as to make arrangements for the Doctor's body to be buried in Gulmira, once it had been identified. Until then, they will wait until Whitley was ready to talk.

Hydrangea saw this and understood immediately what they were doing. But she needed to be sure that they were willing to talk about Toni's situation. She looked to the boy and asked him, "I need to speak with the mayor and Agent Sitwell. Could you watch over Toni until I'm back?"

The boy nodded, giving the old woman his answer. She replied with a smile and nodded as well, before walking off to catch up to Sitwell and Hyacinth.

After she walked off, Whitley looked down at the still-sniffling child. He frowned slightly as he watched her try to stop keep herself from crying more. Seeing no choice, he decided on a course of action that might help the girl.

He knelt down and told her, "Your daddy was a brave man, Toni."

It was still weird calling a child by his grandmother's nickname.

Said child looked up at him and asked, "But is it okay I miss him?"

"It's okay. In fact, I miss him too." Whitley told her reassuringly, "And he missed you, too. Your daddy loved you very much, Toni. Please, don't ever forget that."

Toni wiped the tears from her eyes and wiped her nose. She looked up at Whitley and gave him a soft smile, "I won't. Thank you, Wihitwee."

The boy didn't even try and correct her. She was only four years old.

"No problem, kid." He told her with a smile.

That's when Hydrangea approached the two. She picked up Toni and held her in her arms. Whitley rose up and asked the old woman, "Where can I meet them?"

Hydrangea replied, "At the mayor's house. Follow me."

And so it was that the trio left the cemetery, to meet with the two men at the mayor's home. As they walked, Hydrangea took a few moments to analyze the young Schnee. She wanted to see just what kind of person Yinsen had handed the responsibility of raising Toni onto. She had seen photos of the boy on the CCT news bulletins, and she was quite surprised to see that that the slender, scrawny had been able to bulk himself. But it was nothing too dramatic, he was just leaner and had more muscles, and only slightly taller. From what she heard from Doctor Drew, the boy's ego had made him overestimate his physical changes, as typical of most teenagers.

 _Ah, to be young and foolish again._ She wistfully thought, reminiscing to her youth. _Then again, that was probably the first time in months he's actually looked at a mirror. The boy probably forgot what he looked like._

As well as the physical, she took note of his behavior. The boy, as far as she can tell, had suffered, mentally wise, and was slowly falling apart at the seams. Every so often, he would sneak a glance at some passing villagers, as though he were expecting them to attack him. His eyes were tired and worn, with heavy bags under them, indicating he had not had a proper nights rest for what seemed like months.

The way he carried himself reminded her of a shell-shocked veteran than a carefree teenager. He looked older, and she did not mean in a good way. No one at that age should have such a defeated look in their eyes.

And now, he had the responsibility of looking after a life younger than his own.

She can only wonder what his reaction will be, when he hears the news.

* * *

"With all due respect... Are you out of your damn minds?!"

Hyacinth, Hydrangea, and Sitwell didn't even wince, for they knew that would be the boy's reaction. Surprisingly, his tone was for more restrained than they expected, being more mild annoyance than outright outrage. The choice of profanity was also somewhat more subdued. They were thankful that Toni had decided to take a nap in another room.

Hyacinth said, "No, Mr. Schnee, we are quite perfectly sane. By bequeathing his wedding band, one of his most treasured possessions, Yinsen had named you the legal guardian of Toni, albeit unintentionally."

Sitwell spoke up, "What Mr. Hyacinth said is true, young man. As Gulmira is an unrecognized village, they are not bound by Mistral's laws. As such, they are free to follow their own, and according to their customs, you are now the caretaker of that little girl."

"But I'm only fifteen! I don't know anything about children, let alone raising them! Hell, I'm still technically a child!" Whitley argued, hoping to make the adults see reason.

"No one is arguing that, son. But the fact is that Toni Ho, by the laws of Gulmira, is now your ward." Hyacinth countered.

"But..." Whitley ran his hands through his hair and sighed.

He took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry, it's just that this is a lot to take in. I just escaped from captivity-"

"Which you've yet to explain how," Sitwell interjected.

"I know, and I'll get to that soon- But, as I was trying to say, I've just escaped and now I've found that I've been given this huge responsibility that I wasn't even aware of..."

The three adults allowed the young boy to continue.

"I'm not saying that I'm not willing to take Toni in. I owe Yinsen my life, and if the only way to repay him is to make his daughter my ward, then I'm all for it. But the fact is that Toni needs an _Adult_ to raise her, not another child like me. Toni needs a responsible adult in her life, someone who can provide a stable life for her and teach, nurture, and guide her into adulthood. "

The three adults looked on in shock at the young man. It surprised them that a teenager would even give them such a mature explanation. Hydrangea was especially surprised, given her own skepticism about leaving young Toni in the care of a teenager. But the boy's reasoning ultimately proved her fears wrong. Whitley Schnee was definitely the one to help give Toni a better life, far from Mistral. It was better than the other two options, which was for the girl to either stay in the heavily anti-Faunus kingdom or a village that was rapidly becoming a ghost town.

But that didn't mean he was going to raise her himself.

"Then, perhaps we can reach a compromise?" She suggested.

Whitley looked at her in confusion, and her fellow adults looked at her with an inquisitive stare.

"A compromise...?" Whitley asked, wondering what the old caretaker was suggesting.

"Mr. Schnee, I'm going to be honest with you. You are right in that you are too young to raise her, but you are still now responsible for Toni's wellbeing. That doesn't necessarily mean you have to raise her yourself, but that you can find her someone who can provide her a stable and safe life, so long as you check in on her. Do you know anybody who can give her that?"

Whitley rubbed his chin in thought at that. What Hydrangea suggested was ultimately the best solution to this problem. But the question remained as to who'll be Toni's foster parents. It had to be someone he trusts implicitly, with a well-paying and secure means of employment, and can give Toni the childhood that she deserves. He knew someone like that, two of them in fact.

"There are two people I know." He spoke before explaining, "They're a couple, engaged, who've been thinking of starting a family. One is my father's personal assistant, and the other is my bodyguard. They're kind, compassionate, and don't judge people for being born with something out of their control."

Hydrangea asked the boy. "And she'll be loved as though she were their very child?"

"She will be loved, and she'll be happy and safe." He replied. "Though they'll need to be informed first; I've no doubt they'll take her in, it's only a matter of them having time to get things ready. I'll call them once I return to Argus Base."

Hydrangea nodded and said, "Very well. I will go pack up Toni's things. Mr. Sitwell, when do you intend to depart?"

"About two hours, Ma'am." The agent replied.

"Thank you." She told the agent before telling the boy, "And my thanks to you as well, young man. You've no idea how good this is for Toni."

With a final grateful nod, the woman left the room, to pack up the young girl's belongings for the long trip to Argus. As soon as the door closed, Whitley addressed Sitwell and Hyacinth.

"Now that that's been settled; I believe I owe you a story, Agent Sitwell."

The agent said, "Yes. First, I would like to know how you were able to escape a heavily-fortified terrorist camp."

Whitley stared at the agent, wondering what he should say to him. Sitwell did not strike him as a fool, so lying was definitely out of the question. He did not want to tell him the truth either, as he didn't seem like the trustworthy type. After what had happened to him, he didn't know who to trust outside of his admittedly small circle of friends. For all he knew, MSIS, and maybe the Mistral Military, was just as compromised as Atlas or the SDC. But the agent still needed an explanation for his survival.

It was then that Whitley decided to give the man the partial truth, to tell him what he wanted to hear while leaving out a few key details.

Whitley spoke, "There was a man in a metal suit of armor..."

And so Whitley regaled the two men with the tale of his escape, which he had edited for the record, of course. Of the truths he had told them, He informed them of the identities of his captors, and told how Yinsen had sacrificed himself to aid his escape, how he had stumbled upon the executed prisoners, and how he had been able to escape as the terrorists attacked his mysterious metal savior. He related to them his nearly two day trek through the desert, what he neglected to share was that he had been the one in the metal suit, but as far as he was concerned, they didn't need to know that.

 _Then again, when I was in that armor, it felt like I became a totally different person._

When he had finished telling his story, he was satisfied to see that the two men had bought his story. Well, to him it appeared that Hyacinth believed his story, if his widened eyes and gaping mouth were of any indication. Sitwell, on the other hand, was as stone-faced as a statue, with no visible show of emotion on his face.

His response, however, showed his skepticism, "Alright, so I should put an APB on CyberCop?"

Whitley's opinion of the MSIS agent dipped with that response.

"Agent Sitwell, that was very uncalled for!" Hyacinth reprimanded the bespectacled man.

"I meant no disrespect with that remark. I just find it very hard to believe." Sitwell explained before elaborating, "It sounds impossible. Some stranger in a full suit of armor just waltzes right into a camp full of armed, violent extremists and was somehow able to level the entire place?"

"Look, I'm only telling you what I saw! Excuse me if I didn't take the time to bring back proof, but I was a bit busy trying to escape with my life!" The boy shouted defensively.

If Whitley wanted these men to believe his story, then he really had to sell the part of an emotionally volatile and traumatized boy; it was an easy role, considering that he is indeed an emotionally volatile and traumatized boy. It was method acting at its finest.

"Well, I'm sorry that I can't convince you otherwise, but I know what I saw, and what I saw was a 'stranger in a metal suit'!" Whitley shouted, "I don't know if it was the heat or the adrenaline, but I can't explain what it was I saw!"

Sitwell sighed and said, "Mr. Schnee, I don't doubt that you _believe_ you saw something unexplainable, all I doubt is the true nature of your rescuer."

The boy mentally smirked. _It looks like he bought my story... And the award for best acting goes to Whitley Schnee!_

"Well, Agent Sitwell, can you explain what the 'true nature' of my savior was?" He asked the government agent.

"Well, it's more than likely that what you saw was possibly a group of bandits. We have reports that the Branwen and Askani tribes have been trying to gain influence in the region, often at each other's throats. What you saw was most likely a raiding party from either of those tribes, and the armored figure was their heavy hitter." Sitwell explained.

 _Roll with it, Whitley!_ The boy thought.

"Yes... Yes, you're probably right, Agent Sitwell. That's probably what I actually saw." Whitley said with a resigned tone. "Forgive me, it's just that I'm very tired and I... I just want to go home."

"And you will, son." Hyacinth told the boy with a reassuring tone.

"Indeed, Mr. Schnee." Sitwell said. "And once your ward is ready to leave, we will depart for Argus. For now, just relax."

The agent adjusted his suit and pressed his glasses up.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to inform the world that Whitley Schnee is alive." He said before leaving the room.

It was now just Hyacinth and Whitley. The boy had no idea what the old mayor will say. He may have looked impressed by his story, but it was more probable that the old man was simply astonished by his ability to dupe a highly trained agent. Whitley can admit that if their situations had been reversed he'd be hard-pressed to believe such a story.

"Mr. Schnee" The old man began, "I will be honest with you. I don't know what happened out there in the desert, and I don't doubt you've had quite a struggle, but speak honestly. This armored warrior, whoever they were, did they put an end to Vryolak and Savin?"

"I didn't see what happened to Savin, so I don't know if he's still alive or not. But Vryolak, I can honestly say that he is most assuredly dead. The bastard found himself backed into a corner and chose to take his own life." Whitley told the man.

"I see... Well, I doubt the news of Vryolak's death will convince some of the villagers to stay, but I know they can rest easy knowing that man is dead." Hyacinth said as he rose.

"So what do you intend to tell them?" Whitley asked, still seated in his chair.

"The same thing you told me. As I said, they probably won't stay, but it doesn't matter, Gulmira's finished anyway. As for this armored savior of yours... I don't know who they were or what their true intentions were. They may have been a bandit, or even a hunter, but what I do know is this: To me, and all the villagers, that warrior is a hero."

The old man slowly exited the room, leaving Whitley as the sole occupant. The boy sat there for a while, wondering about what the future may hold for him. He thought of his new ward, his return to Atlas, and what his plans for the future were. But most of all, he thought back to Hyacinths words. After escaping the cave, all he thought about was his failure to save everybody and his disgust at taking life. Not once did he consider the positive impact that his actions created.

Not once did he ever consider the possibility that he might be a hero.

 _No, that's just crazy talk..._

The boy rose from his seat and left the small room.

He had a long ride ahead of him.

* * *

When she received word from MSIS that Whitley Schnee had been found alive, Colonel Caroline Cordovin wondered if she had finally gone daffy at her age. She was old, older than most in the Atlesian Military. So when she heard that the boy had been found, months after his escort had been shot down, she had to take a moment to consider if she had finally started succumbing to early onset dementia. When she heard the boy's voice in the message, any doubts she had regarding her mental state.

And now here she stood, out on the runway of her base, accompanied by her personal guards, the Nubuck twins, awaiting the return of Whitley Schnee.

Her eyes looked to the horizon, over to the mountains that the boy's security detail had flown over more than two months ago. To know that the boy would be returning here in a Mistral airship rather than an Atlesian one was another reminder of her failure to protect the boy. Then she saw them, a small group of steadily growing dots rising above the mountains. As they came closer, she began to make out the details of these objects.

They were Bullheads, blue in color, and approaching at incredible speeds.

They flew past the mountains, over the city, and finally slowed down as they made their final approach on the base. The lead airship was the first to make its descent, as its engines shifted downward to allow the craft to hover as it began its landing procedure. The airship landed on the runway with a brief jolt.

The door panel slid back, the passengers slowly exiting the craft. The first individual to exit the aircraft was a crisply-dressed bald, tanned man who carried a professional bearing in his posture. She had no doubt in her mind that this man was Jasper Sitwell, the MSIS agent who had found the missing boy. The agent approached and acknowledged her with a salute.

"Colonel Cordovin, forgive our late arrival. Certain _developments_ had impeded our return for a few hours."

Cordovin raised a brow and asked, "Developments, you say? And what 'developments' would halt the boy's return by a few hours?"

A voice behind Sitwell asked, "Why don't you ask the boy yourself?"

Sitwell stepped to the side to allow the new voice to identify itself. As soon as Cordovin saw the person, she had to keep her mouth from dropping at the sight. Standing before her was Whitley Schnee, but not the boy she had met all those months ago. This Whitley was leaner and fitter than the scrawny, slender boy that stood in her office months ago. While the physical changes were not dramatic, the very fact that the boy had developed any muscles was itself a shock.

But what really shocked her was the presence of a small figure hiding behind the boy's legs. A small child, a little girl probably no older than four years, hid behind his legs, frightened by all the strange, new sights around her. When the girl peeked out from behind the boy, Cordovin saw that she had black hair, atop which stood folded back cat ears. The child was a Faunus!

"Is there a problem, Colonel?" The boy asked with an irritable tone.

Cordovin composed herself and explained, "No, Mr. Schnee, I'm just surprised at your choice of... _company_."

Whitley narrowed his eyes and indignantly questioned, "Do you have a problem with my _ward_?"

Cordovin blinked and dumbly asked, "Your ward?"

"She is the daughter of the man who saved my life. In his last moments, he named me her legal guardian. Her remaining family was killed by the same ones who captured me." Whitley explained before adding, "She _will_ be treated with the same _respect_ as I am; if you have any problem with _her_ than you have one with _me_. Do I make myself _clear_?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Schnee, I meant no disrespect." Cordovin backpedaled, "Your ward will be given the same respect as you are."

The boy smiled and said, "Thank you, Colonel. I'm glad we were able to come to an understanding. Now, would you please tell me where I can find a scroll? I need to make a call."

Cordovin nodded and spoke, "Of course, sir. While I can't get you a scroll, I can give you access to one of our video terminals."

"Thank you, Colonel. Before we leave, can I have a moment with my ward?"

The Colonel nodded and stepped back, as did her guards. As soon as they were a few inches away, Whitley knelt and calmly told Toni, "I'm going to be gone for a few minutes, Toni. I'm going to talk with some people who'd like to meet you. Mr. Sitwell will watch you until I get back. Is that all right?"

The little girl looked nervously at the bald, mean-looking man and whimpered. She wrapped her arms around Whitley's waist and fearfully pleaded, "Promise you come back, please?"

The boy ruffled the girl's hair and chuckled, "Don't worry. I'll be back, I promise."

Toni gave her new guardian a small smile before walking over to Sitwell. Whitley gave her another reassuring smile before walking off with Cordovin and her guards. As he was led to the terminal, Whitley spent that time thinking back on the words Hyacinth had told him in the man's home, words the boy had been thinking about during the flight back to Argus.

The old man had called him a hero, albeit indirectly. The boy certainly didn't consider himself one, considering what he had done during his escape. Yes, he had accepted that he had killed many people. They were bad people, the worst imaginable, but people just the same. He took no joy or satisfaction in what he had done; he was disgusted and ashamed of himself. But Hyacinth was correct in that by eliminating a couple dozen terrorists, he had saved hundreds more from Vryolak's campaign of terror. In some way, that does technically make him a hero.

 _Not to mention Savin is still at large..._

Despite his disgust with himself, he felt outraged at the fact that Savin had eluded justice. In many ways, the cold-blooded snake man was far more dangerous than his temperamental counterpart. He had betrayed Vryolak and nobody saw it coming, which proved he was cunning and unpredictable. That he had successfully gained knowledge on classified military projects like Dead Whistle showed he was resourceful and had connections. A man like that can cause more damage in a week than Vryolak could in a year.

 _Maybe... Maybe I can stop him myself?_

 _..._

The boy shook his head and derisively thought. _What the hell am I thinking? Hunting Savin is a job for the military, not some kid with a score to settle._

Whitley spent the rest of his short walk in silence, following Cordovin to a small terminal booth inside one of the hangars. He thanked the colonel for giving him access to this booth and stepped inside, closing the sliding door behind him. As soon as the door shut, he pressed a button on the console, which activated the terminal. The screen lit up, presenting the following text box.

[ARGUS TERMINAL NETWORK; IS THIS AN OFFICIAL OR PERSONAL CALL?]

"This is a personal call." He said into the small mic jutting out of the console.

After confirming his request, another text box typed itself into existence.

[PLEASE STATE THE NAME AND SCROLL NUMBER OF THE PERSON YOU WISH TO CONTACT]

Whitley spoke into the mic, "Pepper Potts, 1-963-945, speaker only."

The terminal acknowledged the number and began calling.

* * *

"VIC, for the last time, you can't add a K to your name!" Pepper irately told the AI over the Scroll.

" _But it goes well with the jingle I'm making!"_ The AI argued childishly.

"Your name is supposed to be an abbreviation of 'Very Intelligent Computer'. What will the K stand for?" She countered, hoping to make sentient computer see sense.

" _Uh... the K can stand for Kilobyte?"_ The AI suggested.

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned.

She said, "A kilobyte is a unit of computer memory. You're a living computer, you should know this! Gods, it's like explaining particle physics to... well, a particle!"

Just as the AI was about to retort, another call came in. Pepper looked at the caller ID on her screen. The number was identified as coming from Argus. Pepper felt her heart constrict when she read the name. Argus had been the base from where Whitley had flown before his abduction. But who would be calling her from there?

"VIC, I've got another call coming through. I'm going to put you on hold until then, all right?" She told the computer.

"No, it's not all-" She pressed 'Hold'.

She accepted the new call and spoke to the person on the other line.

"Hello, this is Pepper Potts. To whom am I speaking?"

" _Hey, Pepper, it's been a while."_

Her eyes widened in recognition at the familiar voice. That voice was one she never thought she'd hear again. For two months, she hoped against hope that the owner of this voice was alive, but she never imagined that he would call her himself.

She smiled as hopeful tears fell from her eyes.

"W-Whitley...?"

" _Who else would be calling?"_

She immediately poured two months of worry into her voice as addressed her godson, "You have no idea how happy I am to hear your voice! How are you in Argus? Are you all right? Are you hurt? Are you -?"

" _Pepper, I know you have a million questions and I will answer all of them! I don't have much time, but I need to ask something of you, a favor."_

Pepper blinked in surprise at the boy's urgent tone. She knew that the boy was likely traumatized from his ordeal, but to hear him ask a favor of her after disappearing for two months put her a little on edge. She can only speculate as to what he will ask her. But after being missing for two months, she'll happily indulge whatever favor her godson asks of her.

"What is it that you need, Whitley?" She asked.

" _It's a long story, so I'll keep it short for now. When I was captured, a doctor named Yinsen saved my life. He was a captive like me. He died during my escape trying to buy me time. In his last moments, he made me promise to bury his wedding ring with his family, whom he thought were all dead."_

Pepper said nothing as she listened to the boy explain himself.

" _However, by giving me his ring, his most cherished possession, he unknowingly invoked an old law from his village. He made me the inheritor of all of his responsibilities, one of which is the care of his four year old daughter, who had survived. I'm essentially this little girl's legal guardian now."_

Pepper nearly had a heart attack when she heard that. Her little Godson was now responsible for a little one of his own? Despite herself, she couldn't help but feel angry at this Yinsen for shoving such a huge responsibility onto the boy, especially after said boy went through such a traumatic experience. But from what Whitley had told her, the doctor had assumed his entire family was dead, so she can't entirely fault the man for his unintentional action. Then again, the man had saved Whitley's life, so she is indebted to the late doctor.

"Well, what is this favor, Whitley?" She asked unsurely.

" _Pepper, I know what you're thinking right now. You're probably thinking that I'm too young to handle this kind of responsibility. On that, I agree with you. I know next to nothing about raising a kid. Hell, I'm still a minor, and let's face the facts; my father didn't exactly give me the best example to draw from when it comes to parenting."_

"That would be an understatement... Wait... Did you just say Jacques is a terrible father?" Pepper asked, wondering if she had actually just heard that.

Whitley replied with a very deadpan, _"Yes. Yes, I did. Let's just say my time away from Atlas has given me a new_ perspective _on my life."_

He spoke again, " _But that's not important right now. Right now, there is a scared little girl who has lost everything. She's scared, hurt, and thinks the whole world has turned on her. I can't give her the safety and security she needs, which is why I'm calling you."_

She didn't say anything as Whitley asked, " _Pepper, would you adopt Toni? I promised Yinsen that I would help her, but I cannot raise her. She needs someone who can teach her to her own person, who can nurture her, protect her, and give her the kind of love only a parent can give. I know I'm asking too much, but you and Happy are the only people I can trust to raise her. What do you say?"_

Pepper took a deep breath and thought about it. Can she and Happy really do what Whitley is asking of them? Can they really adopt a child that they have never met and care for her as though she were their own? She wanted nothing more than to start a family with Happy. She's looking forward to the day when she can hold her own baby in her arms. But then her godson, who'd been missing for two months, called her and asked if she was willing to care for his new ward in his stead. Does she have it in her to be a mother earlier than expected?

She replied, "Yes. Happy and I will take care of her. I'll talk it over with him, but I know he'll say yes too."

" _Thank you, Pepper."_

"You're welcome, Whit. Now, is there anything else I need to know about little Toni?"

" _Well, before we left Gulmira- that's where she was born, by the way- I was given her medical info. I'll give it to you when I get back to Atlas..."_

She listened as Whitley began to list off everything she needed to know about the girl who will be her adopted daughter. He related to her the girl's likes, dislikes, dreams, and her fears. He made special note to mention that she was a Faunus, which got her thinking about what life she'd have in Atlas. Pepper was not blind to the problems within the floating city. As far as she knew, there were no Faunus who resided in the city, and the few she did see there were often those who worked menial and degrading jobs. If Toni were to stay in Atlas, she'd be living in a city that would look down on and dehumanize her nearly every day. No child deserves to go through something like that.

 _Then again, Happy has said that he'd rather live in Mantle than in the 'Flying Shiny Shit Platter'; A sentiment that I wholeheartedly agree with._

She had no love for Atlas. She was Mantlian, born and raised, and proud of it. Mantle had its problems; she knew that, especially with all that's been happening recently. It was a dirty, unsafe, and festering city, but at least its citizens had no pretensions of being superior to the other kingdoms. But most of all, unlike Atlas, Toni Ho can have a chance to be more than she can be.

And she and Happy will be right there with her, every step of the way.

But first, she had a certain specialist to call.

One who has been very worried about her brother.

* * *

"All right, thank you, Pepper... Oh, and please don't tell my father anything about this. See you soon."

With those last words, Whitley ended the transmission and exited the booth. The first face he saw, or rather torso, was that of one of Cordovin's guards. The giant of a man stood erect as a pillar with his hands behind his back. He could not see his, as they were obscured by a visor, but he can tell that the man's eyes were on him.

"Mr. Schnee, Colonel Cordovin demands your presence in her office." The man told the boy.

"Can you tell me for what reason?" Whitley asked.

The Guard simply replied, "She has contacted your father."

Whitley suppressed the urge to frown upon hearing that. He didn't think he would speak to his father so soon.

"Lead the way." He told the guard.

The Guard nodded and promptly turned on his heel, his boots clicking on the tiled floor as he marched away. Whitley sighed and just followed, making sure to keep himself a few inches away behind the guard. As he followed his guide to the elevator connected to Cordovin's office, he wondered what he should say to his father. What can he say to the man who had covered up his own son's abduction just to save face?

He honestly didn't know what she should say to the man.

But he definitely knew what he _wanted_ to say.

* * *

When he came to Cordovin's office, the first thing Whitley saw was the diminutive colonel standing next to the window. The same one through which he had observed Argus months ago; a lifetime ago. If he looked through that window again, what will he see this time? Will he see the 'fruits of Atlesian labor and progress' or just another crowning example of Atlas covering up the world's ugliness with something pretty?

The boy thought. _Wow, that was more cynical than usual, Whitley..._

"I'm here, Colonel." He announced.

Cordovin turned to face him and replied, "I've been told by Sitwell that your Father has been informed of your return. He no doubt wants to hear from you right now."

 _Then why didn't_ he _call?_ Whitley mentally fumed. _The second he heard his son's back and he won't bother calling me himself?!_

The young man chose to keep those thoughts to himself. It wouldn't very courteous of him to unpack about two months of outrage in full view of an Atlas colonel.

He kept himself composed and said, "Thank you, Colonel. Would you be kind as to give us some privacy?"

Cordovin nodded in understanding and replied, "Of course, Mr. Schnee. After all, it'd be rather distasteful of me to be present for such a private moment. Press the console on my desk to video-chat with him. I will leave posthaste."

With those final words, the colonel stepped out and entered the elevator. She pressed a button and the doors slid closed. The sound of grinding gears was heard as the lift descended down. Once he was sure that the elevator had stopped, Whitley took a moment to control his breathing, to keep his already turbulent emotions in check. After more than two months in captivity, He will have contact with his family again. Unfortunately, it had to be his father, the man who cared more for his reputation than his own son's welfare.

There were so many things he wanted to say to the man. Most of them were rather... obscene.

But now wasn't the time for him to express his complete and utter loathing for the man.

He walked to the other side of the desk and sat in the colonel's swiveling chair. Surprisingly, the chair was big enough to lay his rear-end upon. He looked down at the console, readied himself, and began typing away. He entered in a single command phrase, causing a wide monitor screen to rise. He entered in the proper name and number and typed in 'contact'.

The screen lit up, pixelated colors flashing to life as an image formed. Within seconds, the screen adjusted itself, focusing the image until it finally formed into a face, one that Whitley recognized well. Staring at him, via a computer camera, was his father. The man, as usual, was immaculately dressed, wearing a crisply pressed white business suit. His face was scrunched up in a worried expression, though the boy can't tell if it was genuine or feigned.

"Hello, Father." He greeted cordially, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Jacques affected a worrying tone and belted out, "Whitley, my boy, you can't imagine how relieved I am to see you! Do you have any idea what torment I've been through, worrying about you?! I thought you were-"

"Playing tennis?" Whitley asked, his irritation finally leaking into his tone.

Jacques blinked and asked, "Excuse me?"

"Or perhaps relaxing by the pool? Reading a book on the beach? Enjoying a fine traditional Animan dish as I lounged about in my five-star hotel room? I mean, according to the news, I'm on a 'Relaxing Vacation'. Tell me, that _is_ what you told the world after I went missing?"

Jacques frowned and spoke, "I admit, it was a miscalculation in releasing that story. I underestimated the collective intelligence of the common masses. But you must understand that I had to uphold the family's reputation. If word got out that one of my children had been captured in my place, our competitors could have used that against the company."

 _In other words: I care more about the company's image than I do my own children._

That was what Whitley wanted to say.

Instead he chose to ask.

"If it had been _Weiss_ , would you have done the same thing, Father?"

Jacques said nothing as he stared at his son. A silence settled between father and son as they waited for the other to speak.

Finally, Jacques asked. "What do you want, Whitley?"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Whitley condescendingly asked.

"What do you want from _me_?" His father demanded.

Whitley thought about that question. What did he want?

What can his father possibly give him to make up for the months of physical, emotional, and psychological torment he had to endure? His heart was broken, figuratively and literally. He had to watch people die, among whom was a man that he came to regard as a friend. The respect and admiration he had felt for his father had long disappeared. In fact, he wanted to be as far away from the bastard as much as possible.

 _Hmmm, that sounds like an idea..._

Whitley sighed and spoke, "I need some time to myself, father."

"You need... _time_?" Jacques asked in confusion.

Whitley elaborated, "Time to sort things out. I was effectively dead to the world for two months. If you thought my capture was damaging to the company, just imagine what my return would bring. I don't think I can handle that kind of attention, especially after what I've been through. For all I know, I might snap and break a photographer's nose with their own camera!"

"I doubt anything that severe will happen." Jacques scoffed.

"Father, I don't think you understand this, but the truth is that I am _this_ close-" He nearly pressed a finger to his thumb, "to having a complete _meltdown_! I need _help_! If you don't want the next major news story to be about your only son having a psychotic break, then you'll let me lay low for a while, so I can get the help I need!"

"Alright, Fine! You need time? I'll give you all the time in the world!" Jacques screamed, "After you get back, there will be a press conference announcing your return. We'll take a photo, we say what the public wants to hear, and then you can go wherever you want, so long as you get help!"

Whitley calmed himself down and said, "Thank you. Don't worry; this won't impede my ability to perform my duties as one of your heirs. I just need to be somewhere else right now, to heal. I was thinking maybe I can stay in Mantle with Mr. Rhodes."

Whitley watched his father clasp his hands together and narrow his eyes in deep thought. The man's mustache bristled as he considered other alternatives to his suggestion. Seconds passed as he mulled it over. Eventually, he sighed and spoke in resignation.

"Very well, Whitley. Upon your return, you will stay with Mr. Rhodes, in Mantle - for reasons I cannot fathom- as you recover from your ordeal. I will allow this, on the condition that you perform your duties as heir when necessary."

"Of course, Father, I wouldn't want to disgrace the family name." Whitley acquiesced with a nod.

 _I can't disgrace it any more than you've already had._

"Quite. Is there anything else you would like to ask?"

"Yeah, there is one thing. How is Mother?" The boy asked, concerned for his mother.

"Believe it or not, she hasn't drunk herself into a stupor in a while. She still drinks, but then again, some habits are hard to kill." His father offhandedly commented.

That actually surprised the young man. His mother, an unrepentant drunkard, had actually learnt some restraint in her habits? Had she done it because of him?

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a press conference to plan." Jacques said before adding, "And please do try to make yourself presentable."

"Of course, Father." Whitley spoke.

Jacques ended the call. The screen immediately went to desktop.

Whitley lowly growled, "Jackass..."

A Jackass his father may be, but at least the man had some courtesy to give him some time away from the public eye. Not out of any feelings of paternal love, but to spare the family the 'embarrassment' of his traumatized teenage son from causing a scene. The only solace Whitley can take is that now he had the freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted to do.

 _But what the hell can I do?_

He now had all the time he can have in pursuing whatever grabbed his interest. Unfortunately, it had to happen at the most inconvenient time in his life. He may be a recent college graduate, but he doubted anybody would hire him right now given his recent experiences. That doesn't even cover his age. 15 years old, turning 16 next month, and the only work experience he had were a few internships, none of them paid. He also had no intention of working for the SDC at this period, not while his father was still in charge.

Plus, there was the fact that whoever had wanted his father dead was most likely in Atlas, as well. It was likely that his Father, as well as the Council and General Ironwood suspected that to be the case. Given the conflict between the three, he doubted that they had cooperated in looking for any suspects. But maybe, just maybe... _He_ can do something about that?

He survived two months as prisoner in a terrorist camp, escaped from said camp, and had been able to build a suit of armor to protect him during that escape. A suit made from boxes of scrap, at that. If he can do all of that, then perhaps he can find out who wanted his father dead, and maybe uncover other crimes the conspirator had doubtlessly committed. If the people who are supposedly sworn to mete out justice won't do it, then perhaps... Maybe he, Whitley Schnee, can do it?

Whitley shook his head, ridding such thoughts from his head.

 _What am I thinking? I mean, if I do any of that, I'd be committing vigilantism, something most people are jailed for._

With that sobering realization, Whitley ceased thinking such ridiculous thoughts.

He stared at the monitor and considered using the Internet. Before he returned to Solitas, he had to get caught up on what's been happening in the world during his captivity. Cordovin wouldn't mind, especially after he explained himself. His mind made up, he opened the web browser and quickly clicked on the newsfeed. While scrolling through the different articles and videos on display, he found something that caught his eye.

It was an article from the Daily Bugle, one of Vale's biggest newspapers, and the title was one of the strangest he had read.

' _SPIDER-MAN: HERO OR MENACE?'_

 _Spider-Man..._

He quickly typed in the word into the search bar. After pressing 'enter', a slew of links appeared, numbering in the thousands. Each link's format was different, being articles, blogs, and even videos, but they all shared the same common factor: Spider-Man. Whitley began looking through the different links, to learn everything that he needed to know about this Spider-Man.

What he saw was nothing short of amazing.

It was honestly awe-inspiring. There was somebody in Vale, who had a spectacular set of abilities, swinging around fighting crime and taking names. All while dressed in a cheap red onesies and torn blue hoodie. The more he read about this vigilante, the more impressed he became. Spider-Man was strong enough to stop a speeding truck with his bare hands, fast enough to dodge bullets with ease, and according to the people he helped, did everything from stopping bank robberies and getting cats out of trees.

If someone like than can be a vigilante, what was stopping him from doing the same.

He had promised Yinsen that he would not waste his second chance at life. Maybe this was a sign of what he should be using that second chance for. If he can build a suit of armor to save his own life, then why not build one that can save other lives? Can he really be a vigilante himself?

Mantle was slowly finding itself embroiled in crime and corruption. Atlas won't lift a finger to help their sister city. As he had seen, there were those who hid in the shadows to prey on those who walk in the light of day. There was also the ever present threat of the Grimm, who have subsisted themselves by feeding on those who live without the Kingdom's protection.

If nobody was willing to do anything about it, then maybe he can.

And just like that, a seed was planted in the fertile soil that was Whitley's mind. A seed that will soon grow and blossom into a flower unlike any other. He exited the browser, shut the computer off, and left for the elevator. As he waited for the doors to close, he thought up a few ideas for this plan that will be his life for the foreseeable future.

But first, he had to settle his affairs. Toni needed to get settled in with Happy and Pepper, he had to indulge his father's desire for improving public opinion, and he had an inheritance to gain. After that, he can fully focus on the path he had decided upon.

He didn't know where this path will lead him, but he knew it'll be worthwhile.

The elevator doors shut.

* * *

 _On July 15_ _th_ _, 2008, Whitley Schnee returned to Atlas._

 _He retreated from the public eye soon after..._

* * *

 **MANTLE, THREE WEEKS LATER...**

* * *

It had been a long day for Greta and Paul Lint. They were tired of looking at rows upon rows of junk food, cleaning supplies, and magazines. They were tired of working under the flickering and buzzing glow of cheap fluorescent lighting. Most of all, they were sick of having to work in close proximity to the restroom, where a customer had left a rather unwelcome smell.

The couple, now nearing their sixties, spent most of their days cooped up in their convenience store, which they ran from underneath their apartment. All through the day, people would come in, browse their wares, and then make a purchase. Today, they had made very little in profits, with the accumulated money barely passing the 1,000 mark. It was now nearing closing time, and the husband and wife business partners were now in the process of shuttering their store for the night.

Greta was at the register, collecting their Lien to be deposited into their safe. Paul was stocking up soda for tomorrow. Most of their sales had been from the frozen section.

As they performed their final tasks for the day, which had become routine for them, the bell rang. Someone had opened the front door. Hopeful that they had a last-minute customer, the elderly couple looked over to where their newest customer had entered.

Fear settled into them as they beheld a shady-looking and unkempt man in a green trench coat had entered their store. The man's head was covered by what appeared to be a black wool cap. This man, to their growing fear, matched the description of a robber who had been cleaning out small stores like theirs.

The man, who didn't take notice of their fearful stares, walked over to the magazine aisle and started perusing the various publications available for purchase. His left hand combed over the sorted magazines and his right hand was buried within his trench coat. Greta looked to her husband and motioned him to keep stacking drinks up, so as not to arouse the man's suspicion. She returned to counting the lien, all while keeping close to the silent alarm button underneath the counter. If the worst were to happen, then she might have to press it.

The man picked out a magazine, a trashy gossip rag, and calmly approached the counter. He tossed the small magazine onto its hard surface. Greta saw this and picked it up to scan it. After she scanned the item, the price appeared on a tiny screen next to the register.

"Alright, sir, that'll be 4 lien. Is there anything else you need?" She asked, as she did with most customers.

The man looked to his right and left, and then behind him. He then asked with a soft voice, "Yeah, there is one thing you can do... put all your money in a bag."

Greta's eyes widened in fear and she asked, "What?"

"I said put the money in a bag and DON'T FUCK WITH ME!" The man cried out angrily as he pulled his right hand out of his coat.

In his hand was a pistol, locked and loaded, and aimed right at her chest. In fear, she leapt back against the wall. The robber looked to his right and noticed Paul, who had heard the shouting and was now standing there shocked, like a deer caught in headlights.

"Alright, old man, do you have a safe?!" The criminal demanded.

Paul quickly nodded his head.

"I want you to get all the money out of it and put in a bag. You better do it or I'll blow this bitch's brains out!"

Paul raised his hands and slowly made his way to the back of the store, nearing a door leading to their office, where the safe was located. He reached out for the doorknob and twisted it, only to find that it was locked.

"It's l-locked. I-I need the k-key to open it." Paul stammered in fear.

"Well, where is it?!" The robber angrily demanded.

He cocked the pistol and raised it, now aiming at Greta's head. He threateningly shouted, "Kick it open or you're gonna be scraping your wife's brains off the wall, bud! DO IT!"

Paul was now worried for his wife. He had knee surgery just a few days ago and was still healing. He couldn't kick the door open even if he wanted to. He tried to explain his condition to the man, who warned that he'd pull the trigger on the count of three if he didn't do something to the door.

"One..." He pressed the muzzle against the frightened woman's temple.

"Two..." Paul bit his lip as he broke in a cold sweat.

"Thre-"

 _Ding-Dong!_

The sound of heavy, metallic feet drew their attention to their front. What they saw was something that they can only describe as something from out of a sci-fi movie. Standing on the cold, hard-tiled floor of the store was a tall metal man, his body chrome in color and eyes a brilliant and bright cyan. The metal man regarded the robber with his inhuman eyes and slowly approached.

" **Drop the gun and surrender."** The newcomer calmly said in a commanding yet youthful-sounding robotic voice.

Rather than doing as he was ordered, the robber panicked and started firing his pistol at the approaching metal man. Paul quickly scampered over to his wife and pulled her down with him, taking cover behind the counter as the bullets flew.

They watched on a nearby security monitor as the metal man strolled toward the robber, unimpeded by the bullets flying into his body. Sparks erupted across the surface of their savior's body with each impact, while some items on the shelves took hits from deflected bullets. Finally, the robber ran out of bullets and moved to reload, only for the metal man to snatch the weapon out of his hands.

That was when the gripped both ends of the pistol and snapped it in half like a twig. The robber stood dumfounded for a few seconds, as though he were frozen in fear. Eventually, his brain started working again and he made a move to the left, hoping to outrun the metal man by cutting through another aisle. Their savior saw this and delivered a swift uppercut into the robber's face, which sent him flying right into the ceiling. The robber's head broke through the ceiling, burying shoulder deep into the surprisingly strong plaster. His body went limp as it dangled carelessly, swaying side to side.

Paul and Greta rose from behind their counter and looked upon their savior. The metal man noticed them and told them reassuringly, " **Don't worry, he's knocked out. The police are on their way now."**

He turned on his heel and walked toward the door. As he walked, he politely told the old couple, **"Have a nice night."**

Once he was outside, the metal man flexed his arms out and straightened his posture, keeping his feet close together. Then, to the awe of the couple, bright beams of light erupted from the man's hands and feet, propelling him into the air. Suddenly, he flew off at great speed.

The couple stood there in silence, completely baffled by the sudden appearance of this seemingly invincible robotic crime fighter. So awestruck were they that they didn't even notice when the ceiling gave in, causing their would-be robber to fall onto the ground in a heap.

After the robber was taken into custody by the police, they uploaded the security footage onto MeTube. Within hours, the video gained millions of views. Many of their viewers shared the video on their social media, which raised more awareness. By early morning, nearly most of Atlas and Mantle had seen the video. While they didn't know the vigilante's true identity, they did have a name for him, supplied generously by the old couple in the video's title.

The Invincible Iron Man.

Or simply, Iron Man

* * *

 **Here is the first chapter of the month as I promised. Hopefully, I'll have the next one posted by the end of the month.**

 **After more than a year, we finally reached the beginning of Iron Man's legend.**

 **And don't worry; eventually he'll earn the red-and-gold.**

 **Excelsior, True Believers!**

 **P.S. Whitley is not as swol as he believes himself to be.**


	10. Setting Things Up

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter Nine: Setting Things Up**

* * *

 **Mantle, August 8** **th** **, 2008 KC**

 **12:30 AM**

As he sat behind the wheel of his police cruiser, parked behind an ambulance, Detective Flynt Coal, Sr. adjusted the straps on his bulletproof vest. The vest was a little tight around the waist-his wife had told him he should be on a diet- but he had no choice but to wear it. He was, after all, a proud officer of the Mantle Metropolitan Police Department, literally the only police force in the world where bulletproof vests were mandatory equipment for all cops. Considering how dangerous the city's been getting recently, especially these last few months, the vest was a necessity. The only complaint he had was that it was manufactured by Hammer Industries, the newest "partner" of the MMPD.

 _Seriously, how the hell was Hammer able to do that? How is it that there is no law to prevent that sort of thing from happening? What is this, CyberCop or something?!_ He fumed, wondering just how bad things had gotten to this point.

He was referring to the recent buyout of the Mantle police by Hammer Industries. The force had been struggling with budgetary problems for years, as most of their funds went to the Atlas Police Force. For the longest time, they had to rely on weapons, equipment, and vehicles that were admittedly antiquated compared to what Atlas cops were using. But then Hammer swooped in and offered to become their primary supplier. Of course, they had to sign an agreement that pretty much split the administration of the force between the city and the company. It wasn't a hostile takeover, but it certainly felt like one.

Of course, the buyout brought more problems than solutions. The most troublesome of which was the ongoing police strike, which nearly half of the force was taking part in. His precinct was among the most affected, as many of the officers had walked out and joined the strike the minute it began. As of now, the 63rd precinct was mostly run by older officers like him, rookies fresh out of the academy, and whatever retirees they convinced to return. If he didn't have a family to care for, he would've joined his brothers and sisters-in-arms at the picket line.

 _Then again, Char is a grown man now and Junior's at Atlas now... No, I still have the twin's college tuition to worry about, not to mention that Gytta's only thirteen..._

Shaking those thoughts away, Detective Coal exited the cruiser. The chilly Mantle night air brushed against his grizzled and bearded face. It didn't bother him one bit, being a native Mantlian. If one was born in the cold, they live with the cold, was their philosophy. He looked up and beheld the sign above the door, which read 'Lint Convenience'. According to the dispatch, the store was being robbed, as a silent alarm had been activated. He looked through the windows and saw EMT'S prepping somebody for transport.

He entered the store, a bell announcing his arrival. He strolled through the center aisle, his shoes clinking against the cold tiled floor, smashing scattered chips and candies under the weight of his heel. He looked about as he walked, taking note of the ripped bags and bullet holes in the cardboard signs. Whoever was trying to rob this place was either drunk or had insanely terrible aim. He approached the EMTs, who had waited for him, and flashed his badge at them.

He looked down at the man on the wheeled stretcher, winced at what he saw, and asked the first paramedic, "Is this the perp or the victim?"

"Not really much of a difference right now." The medic replied, "But, yes, this is the robber."

"What happened to him?" The detective asked as he eyed the brace fastened around the perp's neck.

"Well, according to the witnesses, this guy received an uppercut so fierce that it sent him flying right into the ceiling." The medic explained, "Apparently his head went straight through the tile and he hung there like a damn human piñata until the ceiling gave in."

"Will he be well enough to appear in court?" He asked, hoping that would be the case.

"Well, he won't be able to defend himself in court, since he'll need to get his jaw wired shut." The medic told him, "Excuse us, Detective, but scum or not, this man still needs to go to the hospital."

The old cop stepped aside and let the paramedics wheel the injured suspect outside. Once they had left, he looked back to the old couple who ran the store. They were no doubt still shaken from their recent ordeal. Coal empathized with their fear, having once owned a shop himself. One can never expect when their store will be robbed.

He approached them and calmly asked, "Mr. and Mrs. Lint, I'm detective Flynt Coal. I just want to assure you that everything's going to be fine. I just need to speak with you about what happened here. What you say can put that slime away for a while."

"We're willing to tell you everything, Det. Coal." Ms. Lint said, "It's just, well, my husband and I are still trying to figure out what... no, who? I'm sorry, but I can't really put into words _what_ we just saw."

Coal replied, "If you need some time to sort yourselves, I can give you that. I know that what you went through was intense-"

"No, uh, it's just we're still trying to wrap our heads around the fact that our savior was..." Mr. Lint tried to speak, only to fumble with his words.

He sighed and told the cop, "Maybe it's best that we show you the security footage. Follow us back to our office and we'll show you."

The elderly couple walked to the back of the store, with the detective following after them. Once inside, they played back the footage showing the attempted robbery. Coal saw it all. He saw the suspect enter the store. He watched as he pulled out the gun and threatened the old woman. He seethed in anger as the criminal forced her husband to try and open the office door, all while aiming his weapon at the woman's head. This was all the evidence needed to secure that scumbag's sentence, in his opinion.

But then he saw him, the couple's mysterious savior. Despite the grainy black-and-white footage, he was able to see that the newcomer was a tall, metallic man. The perp panicked and fired his gun at the metal man, which had no effect. In fact, he noticed that some bags on the shelfs were exploding. Coal realized that it was the bullets bounding off of the man's metal body. The metal man took the gun and snapped it in half, as though it were a brittle twig. The robber, realizing his situation, made a move to escape. The metal man delivered a swift uppercut under the robber's jaw, launching the criminal into the ceiling. The video ended with the Metal Man exiting the store and the perp crashing back to the floor after dangling in the air.

Coal looked to the elderly couple, who regarded him with confused gazes.

Fully grasping the situation, he uttered the only intelligent response to such an amazing sight.

"Huh?"

* * *

 **SCHNEE MANOR, WHITLEY'S WORKSHOP**

"No, seriously, V.I.C., just what part of that is confusing to you?"

"The part where you gave what's essentially a golden egg to the old man; I know you're trying to be nicer, but Whit, you do realize the Grimm Deterrent Box- great name by the way- would have made you a mint on the market? You could have built your own damn fortune with that thing!"

"Yeah, it could have. But Hyacinth had been nothing but courteous to me, so I thought it fair to reward his kindness. Plus, that Grimm Deterrent Box- Yeah, I admit it wasn't the best name- would have drawn a lot of unnecessary attention from the people who actually invented the damn thing. Seriously, these A.I.M. guys, whoever they are, sound like trouble and I don't need that right now."

" _You_ don't want _trouble_? If you weren't looking for trouble then you wouldn't be wearing a suit that makes you fly through the air like some pimped-out projectile, especially after getting shot point-blank by some glorified mugger! You could've been killed!"

Whitley frowned as he thought over V.I.C.'s words. He knew there was a chance that he could have died. There were many possible scenarios that would have led to his death. Falling in mid-flight, extreme hypothermia, and of course, accidentally flying into a building at great speeds. He had calculated for every possibility and the probability of them happening, and he was satisfied with the results enough to fly out. But this was his choice.

He looked over at the assembled armor. It had been a surprise to him that the robber's gun had actually left a few dents in the metal. But it was nothing that he can't hammer and buff out. He still had enough metal left for repairs. But the AI, as irritating as he was, had a point about dents. If small arms can dent the armor, just what kind of damage can armor-piercing rounds wrought, or even a damn missile.

He'd rather not think about those outcomes.

He walked over to the armor and pulled off the helmet. He reached inside and pulled out a small chip. This chip contained all the data collected from the armor's test performance, containing readouts regarding things such as structural integrity, power output, and flight data. Everything concerning the performance of the armor, collected in terabytes of information, was stored on this singular chip that fit within the palm of his hand.

And it is with this data that he'll improve upon his newest passion project.

He walked over to a small desk and sat down, logging into the computer upon it. He then addressed his lab partner with a very stern tone.

"Alright, V, if you're done with your little rant, I'd like you to help me look over this data."

"Fine... Alright, lay it on me, Boss!" The AI said through the computer's speakers, "The Very Intelligent Computer wants a crack at this walnut!"

Whitley told the AI, "V.I.C, remember, you're my partner in this. I want you to take this as seriously as I am."

"I'm an artificial existence inhabiting a computer; going over your suit's data is the closest that I'll ever get to experiencing the real world! Of course I'm taking this seriously!"

Suddenly, the AI whined like a petulant child, "Besides, I had nothing better to do after your shit-heel of a dad decided to use caller ID on me; how am I supposed to get my kicks when he knows they're coming!?"

"Vic, please, not now! Just look over this data! We'll talk about your prank calls later!" He yelled, having lost his patience with AI.

"Well, alright-y then, this'll just take a second, dude! Until then, just sit back and relax."

With a press of a button, the data began uploading its contents into the computer. As the contents of the chip were compiling, Whitley leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms out. He heard and felt his spine crack, which made him wince. Who would have thought that soaring through the air in a metal power suit can give one a stiff back?

He most certainly didn't. Then again, soaring through the air entailed having hundreds of pounds of force crash into you. He also felt slightly cold. The armor was not temperature controlled.

 _Maybe I should make some kind of padded and temperature-controlling bodysuit, one I can wear under the armor?_ He wondered, as it appeared to be the best solution at the moment.

He knew this was still the testing stage. Slight adjustments will have to be made on the armor. The addition of the bodysuit might actually make wearing the metal suit more tolerable. It was honestly uncomfortable trying to move his limbs with all those wires and cold exoskeletal frames pressing against his skin. It made him wonder why he wore just a shirt and pants for this test.

 _Then again, the idea of using a flying, metal suit can make anyone forget certain things._ Whitley mused.

 _Still, helping those people was worth it._ Whitley thought with a growing grin.

He never imagined he'd commit his first act of vigilantism during the suit's inaugural flight. He had been flying over the neighborhood just as the suit's built-in police scanner picked up a dispatch about an armed robbery-in-progress. He flew to the store, stopped the robber with an uppercut-which he had shamelessly learned from a MeTube video- and then flew off.

Of course, he'd probably have to watch his own strength when using the armor. While he was finishing the flight test, the scanner picked up a dispatch from an Ambulance that had arrived at scene. Apparently, his punch had broken the robber's jaw, meaning that it'll have to be wired shut. Admittedly, he did feel somewhat guilty rendering a man incapable of chewing solid food.

Well, he felt guilty until he remembered that the man had tried to murder most murder an innocent elderly couple over some lien. Whatever sympathy he felt for the man died when he reminded himself of that fact.

Still, he had to limit the strength he put into his punches and kicks. If there had been a smidgen more strength behind that punch, the robber likely would have died of a broken neck. All he had to do was watch his strength when using the armor. He remembered what happened the last time he had overestimated the armor's strength...

 _NO! The past is the past, just keep moving forward!_ The boy fiercely reminded himself, not wanting to relive certain memories.

But the fact was that a suspect in police custody had been assaulted by a vigilante prior to his arrest. While he doubted the council will order for his head to be served on a silver platter for stopping one robbery, that didn't mean he wasn't on their radar. Right now he was barely a blip, as they had more important matters to deal with at the moment. The most pressing of which was the ongoing police strike in Mantle.

 _Seriously, how was Hammer able to buy out half of Mantle's police precincts? How is there_ not _a law against that sort of thing?_ _Has anybody actually seen CyberCop?!_ Whitley wondered, honestly befuddled by that fact.

"Okay, finished!"

Whitley looked at the computer and saw that all of the data had been collected. With a satisfied grin, he started the diagnostic program, and together with V.I.C, began examining each and every bit of information as it was presented to him. He took whatever problem was found by the data, performed a few test and simulations, and used the results to refine the armor's design. Eventually, he was able to rework the design to fit the specifications that would correct many of the performance problems of the suit.

With the finalized design in place, Whitley set about making the appropriate changes to the armor. For the boy, it was an intense process, one that was fueled by willpower, determination, and enough caffeine to give a senior citizen a heart attack. So focused was he on his task that he lost all sense of time. All that mattered was smoothing out the rougher edges of the prototype armor.

The armor itself, which was dubbed the Mark II, he considered to be his greatest innovation thus far. It was leaps and bounds ahead of whatever cutting-edge tech most companies were developing, even the SDC. The armor plating was composed of a light yet strong metal alloy, composed of chromium, steel, and titanium, 3 of the strongest metals found on Remnant. The strong metal plating protected the wearer from crashes, gunfire, and even powerful explosions. However, this did not make the suit invulnerable, as the plating will eventually wear out if dealt enough damage.

Much like its predecessor, the armor was capable of enhancing the wearer's strength beyond that of a normal person. Unlike the Mark I, however, the wearer's strength is enhanced to what can only be described as nearing superhuman. The heaviest weight ever lifted by a human being was recorded at nearly 2,475 pounds, which was half the weight of an average car. The Mark II, thus far, was shown to be capable of lifting nearly 15,000 pounds, roughly the weight of an average full-grown elephant!

However, Whitley was sure that the enhanced strength had a limit. Even if the suit made him stronger than the average man, he was still one man. He can lift an elephant, but he doubted that he can lift an entire Atlesian warship.

The Repulsor technology, which gave the suit its flight capabilities, had actually been an accidental stroke of genius. They had initially been designed as weapons for the gauntlets. During the first test, Whitley had discovered that the Repulsor rays can generate an impressive amount of thrust. He reworked the design of the boots to integrate the Repulsor technology, and using them in tandem with the gauntlets, found that he can actually fly.

Of course, he had accidently flown right into the wall on the first try.

V.I.C. had recorded the whole thing... for research purposes.

As for weapons, Whitley had only the Repulsor technology. As this was a prototype, he had not put any consideration into adding more firepower. Of course, he had no idea what can be fitted into the armors slick metal frame without adding more weight. For now, he'll have to rely on the palm rays, boot thrusters, and the Unibeam- a last minute addition - for defense. The flares, which had been part of the design from the suit's conception, will make for adequate distractions for enemies. He hoped to remedy this problem with future models.

 _Gods damn, I'm good!_ Whitley proudly thought with an equally proud smile.

With that reassuring thought, he took one final glance at the reworked prototype.

"Well, V.I.C., what do you think?" Whitley asked the AI.

"My honest opinion: I wish I had a body so I can try that bad boy out!" The sentient computer cried.

"No offense, V, but you'd probably crash it on your first try." The Schnee argued jokingly.

"True, but at least I'll go out looking good!" V.I.C. countered before adding, "And I'll be remembered for dying as I lived: Flaming and glorious!"

Whitley blinked and thought. _Not exactly what I'd want on my own tombstone, but hey, you do you, V.I.C._

"All right, V, I'm gonna turn in for the night." He told the computer, "You know what to do next, right?"

"Yeah, dude, I know what I have to do. Just as you ordered, I'm going to fly the armor out and land it at the safe house in Mantle, where you'll pick it up."

Whitley nodded and said, "Very good. I'm going to upload you into the Armor's OS now, V.I.C. Remember: You're only flying the suit to the safe spot and nothing else."

Whitley went to the computer and began the process of transferring the AI into the armor.

As he did so, the AI childishly droned, "Yes, _Dad_!"

Whitley cringed and sternly replied, "Do _not_ call me _that_ again."

V.I.C. chuckled and said, "Doesn't mean it's not true!"

"Okay, into the armor you go!"

Whitley pressed a button and the AI was uploaded into the armor. He turned around and saw the Eyes of the helmet light up, showing that V.I.C. was now in control. The armor moved, as though a person was inside, and flexed its arms and legs. The mobile armor looked at the boy and spoke.

" **You know, you really got to learn to take a joke."** The AI said through the armor's speakers.

"Not the first time I heard that." Whitley commented, "Just follow the tunnel to the courtyard. Once you're there, fly to the spot marked on the map"

The Armor gave him a quick salute and then ran into the tunnel, one of many under the mansion. They had been built by his Grandmother to escape nosy guests during parties. Now they were being used by her grandson to smuggle a highly advanced, weaponized prosthesis out. After a few seconds, He closed the computer and shut down all power to the workshop. He exited the lab. After closing the door to his workshop, He entered his password into the door's electronic lock, which activated with a satisfying series of clicks. With the lock in place, he walked away, to retire to his bedroom.

His workshop was located underneath the manor, meaning that it will be a short but tiring walk, which entailed a short elevator ride, followed by a few stairwells and empty corridors. Considering that he had been awake for nearly 24 hours, it was probably better for him to stop. Now that he thought about it, ever since he returned to Solitas, he found that he wasn't as tired as he should be. While he may have... _problems_ when sleeping, he understood the importance of sleep to the human body. It's just that he just had so much energy in him. It was as though his body was running on overtime, and he had to use most of his time performing strenuous activity before all that energy was spent.

 _Then again, that's not the only thing I've noticed... Maybe I should find somebody to run tests on me?_ Whitley mused, curious about what has been happening to him.

In the weeks since his escape, he had noticed that his body has been _changing_. While he may have gained some considerable muscle during his captivity- he had long accepted that he's not as well-built as he initially believed- that was mostly an outward and visible change. No, these changes were small and subtle, and he barely felt it. He knew it wasn't puberty, considering he was nearing the age when it ends. No, this was something new and ongoing.

He had first noticed back in Gulmira, when he had his blood taken for tests. It took some effort on the doctor's part to inject the needle into his arm. He hadn't thought much of it at first, having believed at the time that his thick muscles were making it hard for her to plunge the needle through. That illusion shattered, much like a sledgehammer on glass, when he was informed by other doctors that he wasn't as muscular as he thought. It still stung a little, knowing that.

But still, that incident was only the first indicator that his body has been changing. The second incident had occurred when he was assembling the Mark II. He had been using a blowtorch to cut up sheet metal for the smelter. The blow torch slipped from his grip and landed on his foot, c causing his shoe to catch aflame. He quickly stamped out the flames, which had nearly burnt his shoe to a crisp, and removed it. To his surprise, his foot was hardly burnt. It was then that he began suspecting that something was happening to his body.

The most recent incident fully confirmed his suspicions, and it had been the inaugural test of the Repulsor tech, the one that his obnoxious assistant had recorded. He had been testing the tech's thrust capacity at 10%; an output that he assumed would not generate enough force. Unfortunately, it created enough force that sent him hurtling into the wall. In all honesty, he should have broken his neck and died. Instead, the worst injury he received was a bloodied nose.

He had told everyone in the household he fell down a flight of stairs. It was the best he could come up with.

Still, that last incident confirmed his theory. The theory being that the Arc Reactor's energies had somehow enhanced the durability of his skin and muscles. The exact limits of this durability remained to be seen, but he doubted that he was invincible. The healed scar on his forearm was proof of that. He may be tougher, but he could still be hurt if dealt serious damage. Unfortunately, this energy did little to build up his muscles, meaning that he'd have to do it the old fashioned way. He wondered if the durability of his muscle tissue will increase with continued exercise.

Whitley frowned and depressingly thought. _There's always a trade-off._

Of course, he wasn't surprised by this revelation. One of the first things he learned growing up was that the best things in life weren't free. He knew from an early age that life would be harder for him being the youngest of the Schnee children, especially when he didn't have the natural physical prowess that his sisters possessed, or their inborn attunement to their family semblance.

 _Then again, I got most of the brains._ He proudly thought.

He may have learnt humility, but there was nothing wrong with acknowledging one's own skills.

He approached the elevator and pressed the button. The elevator doors slid open, allowing him entrance into the cabin. Once inside, he pressed the button for the ground floor, which closed the doors. The elevator lifted up, carrying him to his desired location. The doors slid back, revealing one of the many corridors within Schnee Manor. To his surprise, he found that someone had been waiting for him.

"Klein?" He addressed the butler, "How long were you standing there?"

"I have actually just arrived, Master Whitley. The elevator light was on, so I had decided to wait for you." Klein explained.

He then asked with a concerned tone, "Sir, pardon me for asking, but are you feeling well? You are aware that it is 4 in the morning?"

Whitley groaned and palmed his face. He had known it was early in the morning, but he hadn't been aware it was _that_ early. He tiredly replied, "I got caught up on a project I've been working on. I guess I just lost track of time."

The servant raised a brow and said, "It must be some project."

"Probably the most important I'll ever work on." The boy spoke.

Klein let out a small chuckle before saying, "My, that's quite the declaration, sir; for as long as I've known you, you have never made such a claim."

"Well, what I meant was that it feels important to me. It gives me a sense of order in my life after the... incident." The Schnee glumly explained.

The butler's gaze softened as he considered the boy's circumstances. He recognized the signs of post-traumatic stress when he saw it. In the few weeks since his return, the young man had kept himself confined mostly to his workshop. The fact that he locked the elevator down once he entered his small lab was another point of concern. In the few moments when he was freely moving about the manor, the staff noted his quiet and alarmingly calm disposition. Yet, not once did the boy ever act out in anger or frustration.

In fact, there were even accounts that he actually _helped_ the staff in a few instances. That honestly surprised the servant. For as long as he served the Schnee Family, which totaled thirty years, there had been only one period in which members of the family actually helped the help. When they were younger, mistress Willow and her two late brothers, William and Wilt, would often help the serving staff when they weren't busy. It seemed Whitley was intent on being as self-sufficient as they had been.

He wondered what his mentor, Jarvis, would think about this development.

 _A thought for later, though._ The butler decided.

"Is there anything you need, sir?" He asked the young man.

"No, Klein. Is everything packed for the move?" The boy asked.

"Actually, your belongings have already been moved to Mr. Rhodes' residence."

Whitley was honestly surprised to hear this. When he had told the movers to transport his things to Rhodey's place, he had no idea that they would do it so soon. He thanked Klein and made his way to his bedroom. As he walked, he couldn't help but feel that he wasn't forgetting something.

It was probably something inconsequential.

Right now, all that mattered was getting as much sleep as he can before the move.

* * *

"Ring-a-ding-ding⁓ it's time to wake up and greet the day with a smile, dude!"

Whitley cracked his eyes open and growled. "Gods damn it, V.I.C..."

He rose up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He knew he had forgotten something last night. In his rush to reach his bedroom, he had deigned to change the time for the alarm. An alarm that happened to be the voice of an obnoxious AI that seemed to derive pleasure from belting out his nonexistent vocal chords in the most expressive way possible. He really needed to change the sound he used for his alarm.

He tossed the covers aside and got out of bed, rubbing the back of his head and stifling a yawn.

How long was I asleep? He wondered.

Light was piercing through the blinds of the windows, meaning it was now day. He looked at his scroll and immediately panicked.

He shouted in alarm, "THREE HOURS?!"

 _The best sleep I've had in weeks and it only lasted three hours?!_ Whitley thought irritably.

In all honesty, he wasn't even that surprised. Ever since his imprisonment, he has had trouble falling asleep. Ironically, sleep had become somewhat of a mental endurance test for him. It took all of his willpower to power on through the nightmares and most times, the nightmares won. When he began work on the armor, he found that his sleeping problem became more... manageable. He had nothing but a good night's rest for the past few days. Albeit, they were rather short rests, but still more pleasant than what he had become used to.

Whitley entered the bathroom and shut the door, locking it in place for good measure. Now standing in the bathroom, he looked to the mirror and beheld his reflection. It was still jarring seeing how much he had grown physically. Even when dressed in cotton pajamas, he found that his body frame somewhat stretched against the fabric. He was no bodybuilder, that was certain, but one can tell that he had muscles under the clothes. Yinsen's training regimen- as well as the diet of smuggled food- had certainly done wonders for his body.

Whitley shook his head and thought amusedly; _and to think I thought I was ripped back in Gulmira... though that was the first time in months I actually saw my own reflection. Funny what tricks the human mind can play on you._

He may not be sculpted like a model, but he was getting there... eventually.

He approached the shower, twisted the knob, and hot water came spewing out of the shower head.

He can worry about building muscles later. All that mattered now was enjoying the nice, warm water.

* * *

There were four things that Jacques Schnee prided himself on. The first was his incredible business savvy, which helped propel his late father-in-law's company to heights unimagined. Second, he held enough influence in Atlesian society to shape public opinion in his favor. Thirdly, he had a magnificent and immaculately trimmed mustache. And finally, he took immense pride in having a great measure of control over the life of his youngest child.

Recently, however, he had lost two out of those four. His public image had taken a bit of a hit with that admittedly bogus cover story he concocted to hide his son's kidnapping. But all he needed was some time to repair his standing with the public. The second thing he had lost, arguably the most concerning of the two, was that whatever influence he had over his only son was rapidly diminishing.

 _Of course, I don't consider the boy who came back my son!_ The businessman inwardly fumed.

Whitley Schnee was a slender and weak-willed boy, physically weak and subsisting his existence on his father's approval. This stranger currently occupying his son's room, however, he was nothing like that. He was leaner and more confident, growing stronger every day and sneered at his very presence. He may have the face and his blood, but that boy was not his son.

 _But he will be again, If I play this right._ He thought smugly, his mouth twisting into an arrogant smirk.

While the boy did indeed become stronger and more confident, he was still just a boy; a boy who had a lifestyle that was being paid for by his father. He will let the boy get his way for now, make him see just how hard life outside of the manor was, and just how fortunate he was to have such a generous father. And he will see what happens when one decides to bite the hand that feeds him. After a week, he'll cut the boy off from the family fortune. Once he realizes just how much he had to rely on him, Whitley will come crawling back, just as obedient as before. And given his rumored mental state, he calculated that his son will give up his unwise venture and return home.

Now that Weiss and Winter had left, Whitley was his last chance at molding the perfect heir. While he still preferred Weiss to inherit the company, and he was fully intent on making her see sense and return, it was in his best interests to keep Whitley, the backup, under his thumb.

 _Of course, He'll still need protection._ Jacques remembered, knowing that his son would likely become a target.

While he certainly thought his son was being an ungrateful little brat, he wasn't going to just let the boy waltz right into Mantle unprotected. He was aware that the Schnee name was not held in high regard by the common rabble, and he wouldn't put it past them to try with Whitley. Especially after the boy's recent kidnapping had revealed that the Schnee were just as vulnerable as anyone. Hogan alone was not sufficient protection for the boy, so he had to hire more bodyguards.

 _But whom should I hire?_ The businessman thought deeply.

A team of bodyguards was expensive, especially if they were more experienced. He could hire a couple of Hunters to protect the son, but the thought of letting those barbarians anywhere near his flesh and blood made his own blood boil. Not to mention that the boy would doubtlessly feel uncomfortable under the watchful eye of people twice his age. Whitley needed bodyguards who were closer in age to him, people who can relate to him and put him at ease. By hiring such people, it would show both Whitley and the world that he cared about his son, which would raise his standing among the public.

 _Not to mention it'd be much cheaper... And I know someone who can get me bodyguards like that._ Jacques realized with a devious chuckle.

He pulled out his scroll and quickly dialed in a number. Within seconds, the call was received.

" _You've reached the office of General Ironwood, this is Chris, and how can I help you today?"_ A man's voice asked.

Jacques spoke with a casual and polite tone, "Yes, hello, this is Jacques Schnee. I'd like to schedule a meeting with the general. I have a proposal that I think he'd like to hear."

It was all coming together now. Whitley will get his bodyguards, he'll get to save some lien, and he'll be able to do it while securing a lucrative business deal with the military. It honestly scared Jacques just how much of a genius he was.

Who else would his children have gotten their intellect from?

* * *

To say Willow Schnee was not looking good would be an understatement. Her muscles ached and it stung whenever she moved. She was anxious and agitated, as though she were scared of and angry at everything. But most of all, her stomach felt like it was trying to kick itself out of her body. Yet despite it all, she had resisted the urge to drink.

In spite of everything, no matter how many times the urge reared its ugly head; she chose not to indulge her impulse. Though she would be lying if she said she missed the taste of alcohol on her tongue, the stinging yet oddly pleasant burn in her throat, and the feeling of euphoria that would wash over her...

 _No! No, do not let your mind wander into that place again, missy..._ She reprimanded herself for even relishing the memory of drinking.

All she had to do was stay the course and soon she'll complete her long and arduous journey to Sobriety. She had spent too many years drowning her sorrows in the brew, keeping herself submerged in a sea of alcohol induced apathy and self-pity. It was time to get out. She only wished that the withdrawal wasn't as... unpleasant as it was.

But she had to push through it. Her father had once said 'The road less traveled is often the hardest', and she was going to walk that road.

"Mother, what are you doing up so early?" She heard a voice behind her ask.

She turned and saw a teenaged boy, white haired and blue eyed, dressed in casual business attire staring at her with a gaze that was a strange mix of bewilderment, concern, and suspicion. She knew who this was and she could only stare back in amazement. It never occurred to her just how much Whitley had grown up. She hadn't even realized that he had graduated from college at an impressively young age. She can remember when he was the adorable little scamp who would often play around in the garden, covered in dirt and flashing a silly grin.

But seeing him now just reminded her on how much she had missed in the past seven years. Her little boy had grown up, and here he was standing before her and he felt like a stranger to her.

"Whitley..." She uncertainly said.

What can she say to him? She can't recall if they ever had a conversation. Her mind was a total blank as she tried to initiate a discussion.

"Are you feeling well, mother?" He asked with a slightly worrying tone.

"Of course I am. I was, uh, looking for... Klein. I've yet to have breakfast and I was hoping he could prepare something nice. A good breakfast is the start of a good day, you know, heh-heh-heh..." She spoke, a slight stiffness in her voice.

Whitley blinked and hesitantly replied, "Oh, well, I doubt he's in the kitchen, but perhaps another member of the staff can cook for you. You, uh, do remember the way, yes?"

Willow, her mind still in the painful throes of withdrawal, perceived the last comment as an insult and snapped, "Of course I do!"

Whitley nearly jumped back at her tone, which shook her from her anger. She quickly apologized, "I-I'm so sorry! I don't know why I said it like that! It's been a rough couple of days and I'm not exactly feeling well right now! Oh, gods..."

Whitley held up a hand and spoke, "Mother, it's fine. I know full well what it's like to be... _tired."_

She didn't like how he uttered that word. She knew that his capture had been a trying existence for him, but she wondered if it had affected him more than he let on. She can only hope that Rhodey, Pepper, and Hogan can keep an eye on him and help. She was in no capacity to help anyone, not when she can't even help herself.

"Mother, I know we haven't spoken since my return. But before I leave, I thought I should talk to you, at least." He said.

He then took a deep breath and spoke, "The truth is, Mother, well, I have a lot of things that I _need_ to say to you, but I don't feel like now is the right time to share them. I have a lot of things I need to find out about myself, mostly where I fit in this world. I, uh, just want to let you know that, one day, maybe, we can discuss things. But right now, I need time."

Willow smiled weakly and said, "I understand, Whitley. I need some time to sort things out, too. Just promise me that you'll take care of yourself in Mantle, and that you don't get into too much trouble."

"I'll try the best I can, but I can't promise anything." Whitley said with a very nervous chuckle.

The mother and son watched the other for a few seconds. Neither knew what to do in regards to bidding farewell. Should they hug? Should they wave? Should they just say "good-bye" and go about their business? They may have been family, but the person standing before them was practically a stranger. They settled for a polite nod and walked away from each other.

For Willow, this encounter reminded her of her failure as a parent. Her baby boy was all grown up, and she missed out on so many important milestones in his life. And now he was leaving the nest earlier than expected. In her opinion, leaving the mansion was the best thing for her son. She had long accepted that she was nothing but a bird in a gilded cage.

There was no reason for her chicks to be trapped with her.

* * *

As Whitley walked to the lobby of the manor, he thought of the recent encounter he had with his mother. He had never imagined talking to his mother would have been so... awkward.

As he stood before her, he felt a myriad of emotions old and new. He felt the bitter, cold sting of resentment and the burning, raw anger that he had become long acquainted with. Yet, he also felt emotions he long thought had been forgotten, such as the warm, relieving hand of happiness and the strong, unconditional love a son would have for their mother. But in the end, what he truly felt was a feeling he had become quite familiar with for the past few months: Fear.

Yes, fear was what kept him from truly opening up to his mother. Fear of what he might say and how he would act. Fear of what she would say to him. But most of all, he was afraid of how she'd react if she learned of what he was doing and what he had already done. Would she react in horror or pity when she learned of his violent escape? Would she be proud or terrified of what he was planning to do? Would she even care?

Whitley understood machines. If they were broken, all he had to do was fix. But people, he honestly didn't know how to understand them. If he cannot understand his own emotions, then what hope had he in understanding those of others? Especially given his admittedly limited contact with people outside of his immediate circle of friends and family, which was smaller than he cared to admit.

Moving away from the mansion, from Atlas, was the first step in his journey for answers. He had lived long enough to know how the rich and powerful lived. It was time he understood what true hardship was. He needed to understand what motivated his grandfather to building his fortune and what motivated his grandmother in trying to build a better tomorrow. But most of all, he had to learn who he was away from the family fortune. He had to know just what kind of person Whitley Schnee really was.

He turned a corner and found himself in the corridor leading to the grand staircase. It was only a matter of seconds before he was out of this cold tomb that was once home.

Of course, there was another motive behind his decision to move out. He had no idea who he can trust in Atlas. His father had originally been intended to appear at that weapons demonstration, only for him, his own son, to go in his stead. While the demonstration was public knowledge, its actual location was a classified secret. The only people who had such knowledge were those in the upper echelons of the military and the Schnee Dust Company. To make a long story short: Someone had it out for his father and he got caught in the crosshairs.

And getting out of Atlas was the first part of his plan. He had to get away from the kingdom, away from prying eyes and nosy ears. Mantle, however, was the sort of city that anyone can disappear to. All he had to do, when he wasn't flying around in a metal suit, was stay out of the spotlight, so that he can investigate and discover who had tried to murder his father.

He found himself atop the grand staircase in the lobby. He looked down and saw that the vast room was nearly devoid of any life. Even the doorman wasn't present. The only other person present in the room was none other than Klein. He walked down the stairs and across the floor of the lobby, to approach the butler.

"Klein, does father wish to speak with me?" The boy asked, wondering what else his father will say to convince him to say.

"No, sir, actually I am simply here to open the door for you." The butler explained, "I'm afraid the regular doorman is currently taking his break."

He chuckled and said, "And not because you just wanted to say goodbye?"

"Well, that too." The butler replied with a grin.

Whitley would be lying if he said he wasn't going to miss the genial servant. Klein was reliable, loyal, and always looked out for the actual best interests of his family. Speaking of which...

"Klein, may I ask a favor of you?" The boy asked.

"What is it, sir?"

"Would you keep an eye on my mother?" He asked, "She's going to need someone to help her during her... _situation_."

"I will do everything within my power to aid Mistress Willow on the path to sobriety." Klein promised, fully intent on seeing this task through to the letter.

Whitley thanked the butler, whom opened the door for him.

The boy stepped through the open doorway with a smile. Once outside, he saw Happy standing next to his car. The bodyguard saw his young charge and opened the backseat door. Pepper, who was usually in the back seats, had stayed in Mantle, to help her new daughter adapt to their new home. Whitley had made a promise to visit them soon.

Whitley entered the car and sat down, firmly secured to his seat by the seat belt. What followed was an hour long journey to the airport, where the bullhead taking him to Mantle awaited him.

Once he arrived in the former capitol, he will move into Rhodey's apartment.

But first, he had a small bit of business to finish; one that he had put off for far too long.

* * *

 **Ferrari & Hindle Associates**

 **11:30 AM**

"And with that last bit of paperwork, you now have your Inheritance, Mr. Schnee." Connie Ferrari said as she filed the signed paperwork away.

After so many months, Whitley Schnee had finally gained the inheritance left for him by his grandmother. He had been expecting a rather substantial one, ranging from either money or even a car- of course, the legal driving age was 18, but that didn't matter. But Toni Schnee was an unpredictable woman. Knowing her, he didn't know what to expect.

The lawyer closed the filing cabinet and walked over to a safe. She entered the combination and opened the door. She then pulled out a small sealed envelope. She walked over to the young man and handed the letter to him. Wasting no time, he quickly opened it. He pulled out the envelope's contents and immediately found himself confused.

Resting the palm of his hand was flash drive and a set of keys.

He wasn't expecting that.

"Uh, is this everything?" He asked the lawyer.

"That is literally everything she left for you, Mr. Schnee." She replied. "Of course, the instructions also stated that you needed to go to 39 Downey Avenue."

Whitley recognized the address immediately. It was where his Grandmother's apartment flat was located. It had been empty for five years. What exactly was he going to find there?

"I'm aware that this wasn't what you expected, Mr. Schnee, but I was simply following her last will and testament. If there is anything else you need, don't hesitate to contact my office." Ferrari offered.

He replied, "Thank you, Ms. Ferrari."

He rose up from his seat and shook the lawyer's hand.

Stowing the drive and keys in his pocket, he exited the lawyer's office.

As he walked, he wondered what his grandmother had left him. Whatever awaited him at her old home, he had no idea.

What he did know, was that it was probably something mind-blowing.

* * *

 **Alright, people, Nacoma is going to level with you. This chapter and the last one, they were not my best. In my rush to meet a deadline, my writing suffered and I was left with two equally underwhelming chapters in my opinion. Many people have commented on it, and I fully agree with their criticism, and I would like to assure you all that I'm working to remedy this problem.**

 **So, in order to improve the quality of the chapters, I have decided to release a chapter only once a month, so that I may have a whole month to write one out and refine it. I also need to take a bit of a breather so I don't burn out. I've also got a lot of important things I need to do in March.**

 **Now onto the juicy bits!**

 **Whitley is using the armor as a coping mechanism for his trauma. Like Tony, he will constantly upgrade the armor so that it may keep him focused. Though, should the armor fail, who knows what might happen...**

 **Also, Detective Coal is indeed Flynt's Father. Flynt and Neon will make their debut in the next chapter, which will be released on either March 31** **st** **or April 1** **st** **(No, it is not an April Fools prank! Even I'm not that cruel!)**

 **Excelsior, True Believers!**


	11. Under the Surface, Part 1 of 2

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **Edited 5/25/20: Corrected the timestamp from 2019 to 2008.**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter 10: Under the Surface (Part 1/2)**

* * *

 **Mantle, August 9** **th** **, 2008**

 **Justin Hammer's Office, Justin Hammer's Penthouse**

 **Hammer Building, Hammer Street**

 **20:30 Hammer Time (8:30 PM)**

If there was one thing that Justin Hammer II cannot tolerate, it was failure. His family did not get to where they were by being failures. He scoffed at the notion that "failure leads to success". To him, failure is failure and success is success. There are no in-betweens between mediocrity and perfection as far as he was concerned. But that did not mean he was delusional; failure, as loathe as he was to admit, failure was inevitable in everyday life, and it was important one knew how to deal with it. Thankfully, he had a surefire process that helped him in that regard. It was a philosophy that had served his grandfather and father well and helped build their multi-billion dollar enterprise.

And that secret was to always have someone to blame for any failure. When Rand Enterprises refused to sell their Solitas Assets to his company, he fired the incompetent executive who was brokering the deal. When the Council refused to outright sell the administrative rights of the MMPD to him, he instead opted to buyout only half of the precincts. A decision that the repercussions of which were not felt until three weeks ago.

"And with the police strike now entering its third week, the force has been forced to supplement its precincts with academy graduates and trainees, retirees, and civilian volunteers. It's expected that the overall effectiveness of the entire MMPD is expected to decline exponentially." His rather disinterested assistant reported to him.

Of course, this strike was the result he had desired.

His only regret was that the report was being delivered by someone who was more... enthusiastic. Her lack of enthusiasm did not compel him to even listen to her. He stopped listening immediately after mentioning the strike, which was more than aware of and was hoping to continue for months. Besides, he had a much more pressing matter to attend to at the moment.

"Justin, put the damn Rufik's cube down!" His irate assistant shouted.

With an irritated huff, he tossed the cube onto his desk and crossed his arms. He irritably grumbled, "You know, Sasha, if you weren't my cousin, I would have fired you for that."

Sasha sarcastically remarked, "Not like I've been trying to for years."

Hammer pressed his fist against his chest, acting as though he were clutching a knife. He spoke with a dramatic flair, "Oh, my bleeding heart! Oh, dear cousin, your words cut deeper than any blade!"

She sighed and asked, "Are you capable of taking _anything_ seriously?

"Only if it's something I find interesting." He replied without a care, "For instance, if I thought this report was worth my time, then I'd be standing on my feet, rather than being suspended upside-down by them."

Justin Hammer was indeed hanging upside-down, his legs bound in rope tethered to the ceiling of his office. The rope had been a recent addition to the room, one that he had insisted on installing ever since Sasha took his bungee cord away. Without the thrill of bungee jumping off of his office balcony, he had to find some way to bring the excitement back into this life. Thrills like that were what he actually lived for.

The thing about him was that he was smart, insanely so. He had an intelligence that was far too vast for people to measure, even if they were using the most comprehensive IQ test ever devised. His genius was on the level of and often compared to the likes of Moira McTaggart, Reed Richards, Rufus Weller, and a certain Schnee brat who was better left unmentioned. His brilliant mind, which he considered the only good thing he inherited from his father, was his greatest asset.

It was also, unfortunately, his greatest curse.

The thing about being a genius was that it took the excitement out of life. If he had a problem, he'd think up a solution in a heartbeat. It had been like that his whole life. From talking down a schoolyard bully to fixing the latest processor put out by his company, his responses were quick, measured, and required the most minimal amount of effort.

It was boring.

Rendering an unintelligent brute to a blubbering mess using only his words? Anybody with a sharp wit and a silver tongue can do that.

Fixing a harmful software design flaw? He can do it in minutes, when a division of his company's programmers could struggle for hours at it.

Things that would be impressive to unremarkable people he considered to be completely dull, about as mundane as putting on a pair of pants. Things like that are too ordinary for an extraordinary mind like his. Unfortunately for him, he has to live a genius in a world where nearly 99% of the population just can't catch up to him.

And so he has dedicated his life to pursuing the most unorthodox means of emotional gratification. The act of bungee jumping from his office, just dangling in the air hundreds of feet from the ledge of his balcony and only inches away from impacting against fragile glass? That gave him a rush unlike any other. No matter how life-threatening or theoretically impossible, he would find a way to do it. Such thrills are the only things that mattered in his world.

Of course, there was also making money and the satisfying feeling of crushing his rivals under the heel of his custom-made baby seal leather loafers. One had to appreciate the small things like those in life.

But, for now, he had to act serious before Sasha considered taking the ropes away.

He snapped his fingers and called out, "Boris, come!"

The doors to his office opened, revealing a burly, muscular thirty-something tanned man in a finely pressed black business suit. The man was stone-faced with combed back curly black hair, with impressive looking green-tinted sunglasses obscuring his eyes. This was Boris Bullski, the long-serving bodyguard of Justin Hammer. He approached the dangling CEO and untied the binds on his ankles. Hammer didn't even scream when he fell, for Boris had gripped his ankles with his powerful hands and gently lowered him to the ground, allowing the CEO to do a quick handstand before somersaulting to his feet.

"Will that be all, Mr. Hammer?"

"No, Boris that will be all." Hammer told the giant with a dismissive wave. He turned to his assistant and ordered, "Sasha, thank the man on his way out for me."

Sasha rolled her eyes and spoke disinterestedly, "Thank you, Boris, from letting my cousin experiencing actual pain. Your services are indeed welcome."

"Just doing my job, Ms. Hammer," The Bodyguard said before asking, "We still on for later?"

Sasha nodded in affirmation, giving the man all he needed to know about their later plans. He left the office without another word. Now that they were alone, Sasha continued speaking to her cousin/boss. The young CEO walked to his office desk and sat down in his chair, clasping his hands together, ready to listen to the rest of today's report.

"Well," He said, "I believe you were saying something about the strike?"

"Ah, so you were listening?" She asked.

"Yes, I was... And I ask, what is the problem again?" He asked back.

"The strike is the problem, Justin..." She said before elaborating. "With many of the precincts we're administering losing half of their manpower, it will cause the crime rate to rise, which in turn will make the city start calling for heads... And I like my head where it is, Justin."

"Heh-heh-heh..." Justin chuckled, a wry grin on his face.

He then spoke, "I'm afraid you've already lost your head, dear cousin. I asked, _what is the problem?_ I didn't ask about the strike. I see no problem at all. This strike has weeded out those who've placed their lives over those they're sworn to protect. When crime starts to rise, the public won't blame us. We don't pay the cops, the city does. Hammer Industries merely supplies and maintains the precincts to lessen the financial burden on the city. The only heads Mantle will be hunting for are the protestors and the politicians and lawyers who've sided with them. We are as much victims as they all are."

"That was... well explained. It's almost like you've put a lot of thought into..." Sasha froze and began to process what she had heard. Once she was finished, she asked her cousin, "Justin, were you _planning_ for this strike to happen."

Justin said nothing as he rose from his seat and walked over to the glass doors to his balcony. He opened the doors, causing a gust of wind to blow into the room. He walked onto the balcony and leaned on the safety railing, his eyes looking over the city. Sasha, who had followed him, stood from behind, wondering what her employer/cousin was thinking.

"Sasha, do you know what the very last words Father ever said to me were?" He asked.

"I've always hated you, son?" She asked unsurely.

"Ha-ha... Well, he did say that, but he also told me a secret."

Sasha raised an inquisitive eyebrow at that, wondering where he was going with this story.

"He told me that he had a plan. A plan that has been in motion since before I was even born, that I will see come to fruition. This strike is part of that plan." He elaborated, a smug smirk stretching across his face.

"What is the plan, Justin?" Sasha asked, genuinely interested to hear the answer. "What's going to happen?"

He turned to face his cousin/assistant and proudly spoke, "Times are changing, Sasha. Big things are going to happen. Big things that'll bring bigger problems, and Mantle will be right in the center."

She then remarked, "It almost sounds like you want Mantle to be destroyed."

"Oh no, Sasha... I'm going to _save_ Mantle." He countered, surprising her.

* * *

 **James Rhodes' Apartment, Mantle**

 **10:30 PM**

"Alright, that takes care of that." Rhodey said before hammering the last nail in.

Placing the hammer in his tool belt, he took both of his hands to adjust the picture frame. Once it was aligned perfectly, he stood back and observed the changes made to the room. Once this was the guest room, but now it was a bedroom for his godson, Whitley Schnee. Everything needed to make this place feel like a home away from home for the boy had already been put in place. He had a bed, a dresser, a television, and a desk for the boy to place his computer.

"It looks great, Rhodey!" He heard the boy exclaim.

He turned to see his godson standing in the open doorway, hefting a large cardboard box labeled "fragile". It honestly surprised the man when he saw that Whitley had gained muscle since the last time he saw him. The boy he was looking at did not resemble the thin, slender boy from months ago. He watched him enter the room, crouching down beside his new bed, and slid the box under it. The box was the last of a dozen, which Whitley had placed in the attic. Exhausted from all of the heavy lifting he had to do, the boy collapsed onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

Rhodey chuckled at the overdramatic display. He oftentimes wondered if a flair for the dramatic was hereditary in the Schnee bloodline. Winter had it, Weiss certainly has it, and Whitley had it in spades. Hopefully, the boy will grow out of it.

"Okay, Whit, I wanna know, what do you think of your new room?" The man asked his young charge.

"It's small, cramped, and it needs a new paint job," The boy said before happily saying, "I love it!"

Rhodey couldn't help but smile nervously at that. On one hand, he was glad to see that Whitley was adjusting well to his new room. On the other, he was adjusting to everything _too_ well. He was aware that the boy was suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress, yet he seemed to be handling it in stride.

That was worrying. Nobody should be that calm about mental trauma. He knew that from first-hand experience.

"Whitley, be honest with me. Is everything all right?" He asked in concern.

Whitley dropped the smile and replied, "What do you mean, Rhodey?"

"I mean, how are you feeling right now?" The man elaborated, "It's just... you're kind of taking this whole thing a little _too_ well."

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm young, smart, and I'm finally striking out on my own! Albeit I'm staying with you, but I'm my own man now!"

Rhodey shook his head, "No. You are not a man. You are a boy. A boy, who's barely even sixteen, who has moved out of his parent's house, right after being held hostage by extremists for more than two months. Most kids your age would be too traumatized to even step out of their bedroom for months after that. Instead, you moved out of yours to here?"

"Maybe I'm just tougher than most people give me credit for." The boy argued, crossing his arms for good measure.

Rhodey frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath and spoke, "Whitley, take this from a man who's spent years fighting his own demons. Nobody is safe from mental trauma. It's not like a scratch on your wrist that you can put a Band-Aid on. No, it goes deeper than skin and muscle. And unlike a scratch, it doesn't heal up in days. It takes years, at best. So, I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me, _Are you all right?_ "

Whitley uncrossed his arms, his self-assured confidence gone. He took a deep breath and clasped his hands together, hoping it will keep him composed. Once he was fully composed and found the words he wished to use. He looked up at his godfather and said, "Honestly, no, I'm not all right. I've been having nightmares, really bad ones, and sometimes I feel like I'm being watched. Whenever I feel like I'm getting better, it only gets worse... and my family wasn't helping matters, but that's painfully obvious. I thought moving here would help."

Rhodey listened and sighed, "That's all I needed to hear. Look, Whitley, I just want you to know that you don't have to feel ashamed about what you're going through. If you ever need someone to talk to about it, just come to me. But if you feel you need professional help, I know this great psychiatrist and she-"

"No. Rhodey, I appreciate the concern, but I don't need a shrink. I think all I need is some time away from the public life. You know, to find myself? See who Whitley Schnee really is?" The boy spoke adamantly.

"And who _exactly_ are you?"

The boy replied, "We're going to have to wait and see."

Then he yawned, "But soul searching is going to have to wait. Who knew carrying boxes all day can wear people out?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna hit the hay, too. I do have a shop to open tomorrow." Rhodey said as he cracked his back. He then asked, "Are you sure you don't wanna work in the shop, after you turn sixteen? The pay's good, hours are short, and pocket money is not going to be easy to come by if you really have your heart set on this."

"I appreciate the offer, Rhodey, but I doubt I have the skills to work in your café and diner. Plus, having a Schnee in your employ won't do well for your business. My family's not exactly popular in this city." The boy said, "Speaking of, do you have the list I gave you, for the store?"

"I do, don't worry." His guardian replied, "But seriously, if you ever need someone to talk to, just come to me."

"I will, Rhodey. Oh, and thanks again for letting me stay here."

"It's nothing, kid." The man said before heading for the door. Before he closed the door, he said, "Night, Whit."

"Good night, Rhodey."

Rhodey shut the door behind him, leaving the boy in his new bedroom. Now alone, Whitley fell on his back onto the mattress, the soft surface cushioning the impact. He stared at the ceiling and said, "As if it'll be a good night's rest for me."

He had no plans of sleeping this night. He fished his Scroll out of his pocket and dialed in a number. He brought the device to his ear and heard the obnoxious ringing that signified the waiting call. The ringing ceased and a familiarly obnoxious voice answered, " _Yeah, dude, this V.I.C- 555-V-I-C-K, diddley-doo- may ask who is callin'?"_

He groaned, "V.I.C, you know who this is."

" _Oh, I know, I just wanted some fun. It's been a little boring waiting around here. Plus, you could have picked a better hiding spot. I mean, a sewer hole, seriously?"_

"Hey, it's inconspicuous and nobody can see you. Plus, you don't have a nose, so why are you getting so upset?"

The AI snapped, _"Because I'm hiding in a damn sewer! I may not smell shit- which this place is flooded with, btw- but why a sewer, of all places?"_

"Well, I'm sorry, it's not like I have some kind of hidden lair or something! Look, just get out of the sewer, just fly around for a bit, you know, to air the smell out- at least that's how I think it works- and then come pick me up. We've got somewhere to be."

" _Yeah, about that, boss, it's kind of busy up there. I'm hearing cars, people, animals, and I think a concert- sounds like Allison Blaire- so it might be a while before I can get out."_

Whitley groaned and said, "All right, just come like early in the morning, maybe like 3 AM. There can't be that many people out at that time. Until then, just sit back and enjoy those fresh beats. I'm gonna, oh, I don't know, watch Flixnet or something."

" _Sounds like a plan. Alrighty, the Very Intelligent Computer is gonna catch some virtual z's in the meantime. Oh, and if you require further customer support, just remember... ⁓If you wanna talk, don't e-mail-"_

Whitley ended the call right then and there. He had heard that damn jingle so many times that the lyrics have practically been seared into his memory. He laid his scroll on the nightstand and planted his head onto the pillow. He doesn't know when V.I.C. will bring the armor to Rhodey's apartment, but he hoped that the AI will use caution when approaching the building. The last thing he needed was for the neighborhood to be wakened up by the sound of a heavy metal armor floating in the air with loud Repulsor technology.

But that was the least of his worries. He hadn't known it until the afternoon, but his little act of heroism had been recorded last night. To his surprise, the store owners had uploaded the video to the internet, going viral by at least early morning. Most of the comments decried it as a hoax or some elaborate marketing campaign for a movie, but there was a small camp who rightly believed the video to be genuine.

Whitley couldn't help but lament that fact. He did not regret saving that old couple, but he didn't think they'd upload a video of him. All his plans to keep the armor from getting noticed until it was perfected had gone down the drain. What's more is that the couple had given their savior a name, one that the kingdom had adopted if the comments on the internet were anything to go by.

They were calling him "Iron Man". It was short, powerful, and rolled off the tongue.

 _But it's not totally accurate, since it's not made of iron. It's actually a steel-titanium alloy._ The boy thought proudly only to deflate when he realized. _Of course, Steel-Titanium Man is not as catchy._

He wondered what the AI's opinion on his newly obtained alias was. He'll have to ask for his simulated thoughts on the matter after he arrived in the neighborhood.

 _A very heavily-populated neighborhood..._

Now that he thought about it, why should he have V.I.C. fly the armor right into the middle of a sleepy neighborhood? He should be the one sneaking out and making his way toward the armor. Sure, most of the neighborhood would be asleep, but he was more than aware that some people preferred the night. Not to mention that the armor's arrival might very well wake up the entire block.

 _Not unless I go get the armor myself... But do I really have it in me to sneak out into the city, from under the notice of my designated guardian, so late at night?_

 _..._

 _I mean, I'm already thinking it, so I might as well just do it. But only just this one time!_

* * *

 **Atlas Academy, General Ironwood's Office**

 **8:45 PM**

Within his office, atop the highest tower of Atlas Academy, General James Ironwood contemplated the proposal that Jacques Schnee had offered him. It honestly surprised him that the man wanted another contract between the army and his company, considering the dozen that already existed between them. However, this proposal had come with a condition, one that was quite unorthodox to say the least. If he were being honest with himself, the businessman's favor shocked him more than the new contract.

In exchange for supplying newly refined Dust to the Academy, he asked that a team of young Hunters-in-training become his son's new security detail. Initially, he was going to deny the man's request, considering that his students were not mercenaries for hire. But then Jacques upped the ante by offering a special discount on all Schnee products for all current Academy students. Ironwood was flabbergasted to hear that, as the number one complaint of all his students was their inability to pay for certain amenities outside of campus.

Atlas Academy, unlike her sister schools, was funded partly by the kingdom, allowing their students to receive an education paid for by taxpayers' dollars. Unfortunately, this did not mean they got a free pass on everything, as many of his students often had to pay out of pocket for clothes, food, weapons maintenance, and their personal Dust supplies. Jacques' offer would go a long way in reducing the financial strain on his students, as well as raising morale.

With that in mind, he accepted the proposal, albeit with some measure of hesitance.

It had been two days and they have since signed the agreement. Jacques immediately honored his end of the deal, with the announcement of the deal being released today. Now it was time for him to honor his word and assign some of his students to serve as Whitley Schnee's bodyguards. He had to make good on his part, for the sake of his school. The General also hoped this act can make up for his part in covering up the boy's capture and his inability to rescue him.

 _But whom should I send?_ He mused, honestly at a loss.

He had made his decision in assigning first-year students to this task, feeling that it would make for great field experience. Of course, they will have a full Hunter to act as their supervisor. He already had someone in mind for that role. But he was not going to just pull a whole student team away from their studies, especially during the third week of the semester. And with the Vytal Festival coming up, he needed all of his newer teams building their skills for the tournament. He needed students who fit the criteria he was looking for.

They had to be a pair, worked well together, and had to be desperate to take part in the tournament. They also had be native Mantlians, as their knowledge of the city would give them the field advantage. Meaning he had to find two students who had found themselves in a situation that kept them from competing in the Vytal Tournament. If these two agreed to this assignment, then he will sign them up for the tournament. Of course, they had to agree to have a certain robot and her beleaguered attaché as temporary teammates.

It was then that he remembered that he did have two students who might meet those requirements.

He pressed the intercom on his desk and spoke into it. "Reggie?"

" _Yes, General Ironwood, sir?"_ His assistant's voice cackled over the speaker.

"Can you send Team FNKI's file to me, along with each member's individual file?"

Reggie replied quickly, " _Right away, sir."_

A small ding on his computer alerted him that the files had been sent. He thanked his assistant and sat down and opened the digital folder on Team FNKI. If he was indeed going to send two of his students to protect the young Schnee, he had to be sure that they met the requirements for the task.

 _Team FNKI, one of the newer teams to have formed this year, led by one Flynt Coal, Jr. Each member has shown incredible promise in combat and strategy. Despite their short time together, they have become a tightly knit group. While such loyalty would usually be considered strength, it also became their greatest liability, as proven last week._ Ironwood thought, remembering the incident that had to the temporary fracturing of the team.

 _Ivori and Kobalt's loyalty to their team was commendable, but what they did went against academy regulations. If they had simply reported the incident to me first, then perhaps they wouldn't be suspended. But I can't focus on what-ifs. I need to focus on what I know._ He thought with a sigh.

He pulled up the file on Flynt Coal, Jr.

 _Flynt Coal, Jr., though he just prefers Flynt, is the son of a Mantle police office- formerly a Dust shop owner- and a concert trumpeter, and the fourth oldest among five siblings. Classmates have described him as being "cool", in the most complimentary sense of the word. He is noted for being level-headed during tense situations, though he tends to be quite opinionated and jump to conclusions when it comes to people. He is an impressive strategist, respects protocol, and inspires loyalty in his teammates. He sounds like officer material, maybe even Ace-Ops. His semblance, "Killer Quartet", grants him the ability to create solid projections of himself that are capable of independent movement._

Coal was definitely going to be guarding Whitley Schnee. He was aware that his father had once operated a Dust Shop that had been driven out of business by the SDC. He hoped that the young man won't hold the young Schnee accountable for the actions of his father. Children should not be held accountable for the sins of their parents, after all. He knew that from experience.

He pulled up the file on Neon Katt.

 _Neon Katt, one of the few Faunus to attend Atlas Academy; her father's an old war buddy of mine, who now works for the Atlas Intelligence Bureau. Her late mother was a huntress. She only has one sibling, a little brother. She and Flynt have known each since they were toddlers, as their families are good friends. While her grades in combat school were fairly average, her combat prowess and semblance impressed many former instructors in giving her enough recommendations to attend Atlas. She is described as erratic and impulsive, but also a very empathetic young woman. Her semblance, "Rush", gives her incredible speed._

Neon sounded promising, but her impulsive tendencies may be a liability. However, she was still Flynt's partner and this assignment needed two students. He can only hope that this assignment will help her mature. Of course, her being a Faunus might put the young Schnee on edge, considering he had recently spent months being held hostage by Faunus extremists.

 _And I'm definitely not telling Jacques, either._ He concluded, as he was more than aware of the man's prejudiced views on Faunus.

The two had their flaws, but their skills and partnership more than made up for it. They were far from perfect, but they were the best that he can find for such an important task. Plus, they were some of the more promising students in this year's crop. There was really no need for them to sit out on the Vytal Tournament. This new assignment was right up their alley and it might help them improve as Hunters.

It was a stroke of genius, in his opinion.

* * *

 **Mantle Sewers**

 **3:30 AM**

"Great idea to hide the armor in the sewer, Whit; no, really, it was a pure stroke of genius!" Whitley sarcastically groused to himself as he pinched his nostrils with his right hand.

The other grasped a flashlight with a tight and firm grip, illuminating the path before him as he made his toward the armor.

He knew the sewer was literally the worst place to hide the armor, but it was the only place too. The Mantle Sewage System was underground, away from people, security cameras, and hardly anybody, save workers, ever travelled down there. And in his wisdom, he chose to sneak out of the apartment after midnight to retrieve the armor. Instead of sleeping in a clean, dry bedroom on a nice, comfy bed, he chose to spend the wee hours of the morning walking in a dank, humid sewer through filthy, grimy sewage.

At least he had the foresight to buy rubber boots and gloves, and to come at a time when the sewage water levels were at their lowest.

And he wasn't bothered by the smell. At least, it didn't bother him as much as it should have. The mixed odor of blood, vomit, and excrement was seared right into his mind, desensitizing his sense of smell to the point that anything short of a toxic dump can't disgust him. Honestly, that fact alone bothered him to no end.

Not even the sound of his boots splashing in contaminated swill fazed him. Still, he may have to consider setting up a better hiding place. Finding an entrance that wasn't within range of surveillance equipment was a challenge. Thankfully, he had found a hole about three blocks away from Rhodey's apartment, one located in an alleyway.

He hoped Rhodey was a heavy sleeper. It hadn't been easy sneaking out of the apartment.

And he doubted the man would fall for the old 'pillows under the blanket' trick. As befitting a former military pilot, Rhodey had eyes and like a hawk, sharply attuned and extremely difficult to evade.

 _I wonder if his niece had ever pulled a fast one on him._ The boy thought.

He didn't know much about Rhodey's niece, Ciel, other than the fact that she was now attending Atlas Academy. He'll have to ask him about her some time. In fact, there are a lot of things he needed to ask a lot of people about.

 _But that's going to have to wait... I need to find the armor before these fumes get to me._ He reminded himself.

He may be used to the smell, but he knew it was bad for his health. Who knew what sort of diseases and viruses were gestating in this toxic sludge? He'd rather not think about it.

Bracing himself for the coming bombardment of aerial filth into his nasal passages, Whitley released the hold on his nose and dug his hand into his jacket's pocket, to retrieve his scroll. He brought the small device out and immediately typed in V.I.C.'s personal number. But he did not use that damned jingle to remember it. Once the last number was entered, he was rewarded with the satisfying sound of a ringtone.

He shoved the Scroll to his ear and waited for the AI to answer. Seconds passed before the call went through.

" _Hello⁓_ _"_ V.I.C. sang as he answered.

"V, it's Whitley, I need you to pick me up now." He told his creation.

" _Like, right now? I mean the concert's over, but they're still cleaning things up. You really want me to get you now?_ " The AI asked, no doubt wondering what possessed his creator to be so reckless.

"If you're worried about getting caught, then don't be. Nobody's going to see you anyway."

" _Why's that?"_

The boy replied, "Because I'm in the sewer right now."

"... _Really? I mean, seriously?_ " The AI questioned, " _You do realize that you're basically walking through a liquefied venereal disease, right?"_

"Of course I do, V.I.C. That's why I'm wearing rubber boots!" He said defensively, "I am a scientist after all. I have a degree."

" _Yeah, in engineering, not virology! It's just I don't think you put any thought into your little trip."_

"I've been learning to be more spontaneous." He spoke curtly. "Look, just track my Scroll and come get me. I think the smell's starting to get to me."

" _Alright, Alright, I got it. Heading your way now,"_ V.I.C. said, _"Be ready when I get there."_

"I will. See you then." The boy said before ending the call.

Once again pocketing his scroll, he resumed pinching his nostrils. He was wrong about the smell. In his opinion, sewage water was the fourth worst smell after feces, vomit, and blood, in that order. The next time he chose to hide his armor, he'll make sure to keep it somewhere where it the water was clean and the air was fresh.

The sound of thrusters softly echoing in the distance shook him from his thought. He looked ahead, his eyes staring into the darkness, searching for the glow of repulsor gauntlets and boots. He raised his hand holding the flashlight, illuminating a short portion of the tunnel. He waited and listened as the echoes began to recede, which told him that the armor was getting close.

That's when he saw the warm glow of the repulsors and the sound of swishing water. He held his arm up, to keep the light shining forth. It was then that he caught a glimpse of silvery steel-titanium. He grinned as the armor steadied itself in the air, hovering inches above sewage water. The armor opened up, armor plating peeling back to reveal the exoskeletal frame.

Whitley took in the sight and smiled.

"Daddy's home," He said.

He leapt up into the armor. His feet landed in the boots, which closed up. He felt his hands become encased in steel as the gauntlets closed around his wrists. Quickly, the armor enveloped his whole body, the final piece being the face plate which slid over his own face.

He blinked as the HUD lit up, scanning his eyes and face. Once his identity was confirmed, the screen really came to life, flashing holographic readings, diagnostics, and the latest ATC and CCT reports.

"All right, first thing, bring up Arc Reactor readings." He ordered the onboard OS.

"Arc reactor output at roughly 71%." A computerized voice reported.

 _Al1 right, good, that's enough to last till the afternoon. Thank gods I had all that palladium for back-up cores._

He then addressed his artificial copilot, **"V, take five, It's my show now."**

" **You got it, dude. I'm gonna shut off for now. All work and no play makes V.I.C. a dull program after all. See you then!"**

The AI switched off, granting Whitley full control over the armor. In that instant, he ceased to be the youngest scion of the Schnee family. He was now the vigilante that the city now knew as Iron Man.

Iron Man pulled up a map of the sewage system and found a route that led to his desired destination. Flying through the night sky was not in the cards at this moment, so he decided to use the sewage system instead. He turned to his right and fired his repulsors, propelling him forward. For the next several minutes, he flew through the Mantle sewer system, the armor's operating system aiding him as he traversed the tunnels. It was going to be a while before he could fly the suit without its help. When he saw that he was now directly beneath 34 Downey Ave, he stopped and flew up to the metal plate that covered the entrance on the street. He flew up and lifted the metal covering, allowing him to exit the sewers. He hovered through the hole and landed on the street. He stood up and walked down the street. That's when he saw it. 39 Downey Ave. He was now standing in front of his grandmother's apartment.

As he stood before the abandoned building, Iron Man found him staring upon the ruin in a nostalgic trance. He hadn't seen his grandmother's home in years. And he did not like what had happened to it during those years.

The brick walls of the three-story building were grimy and layered with six years' worth of mold and fungus. The windows were shuttered by thick wooden boards, many of which seemed to be on the brink of falling off. The front door, once a richly varnished mahogany, was now chipped and starting to rot away. He considered it a genuine miracle that the door was still even attached to the frame.

 _And, of course, some punks just had to use it their own personal canvas._ He groused internally, noting the gratuitous collection of graffiti upon the brick walls.

Most of the images were obscene, shoddy, and tasteless. To his disgust, quite a number of them were quite discriminatory against Faunus. Unsurprisingly, there were a few that were harshly critical of his family. He knew his family wasn't exactly _popular_ in this city.

Still, he couldn't help but frown as he took in the sight. Once, this apartment had been a warm and inviting sanctuary for him and his sisters away from the cutthroat and merciless world their father brought them into. Now it lays ruined and abandoned, a hollow husk of a home ravaged and beaten by the uncaring hands of time. He shuddered to imagine what the interior looked like.

But he needed to know what was inside. He had to know why his grandmother had bequeathed to him some keys, three in total, and a flash drive. The truth behind these strange gifts, he knew, can only be found in her long abandoned home. Why else would she demand that he come to his address in her will?

He ordered the armor's operating system, **"Armor, release."**

Immediately, the armor opened up. Metal plates shifted outward and slid back, revealing Whitley Schnee to the world once more.

He stepped out of the armor, his back aching and sore. He stretched and cracked his back, his spine audibly cracking. Another flight in the suit had all but confirmed his need for some kind of padded under suit. His first order of business, after finishing this little adventure, is to search for the proper materials to use. Materials that he'll have to buy before his father froze his bank deposits.

 _Wow, I really have a lot on my plate. A whole buffet's worth._ He realized. He shook his head and thought, _Problems for later, what matters right now is finding what grandma left for me here._

But despite his urge to enter the building, that didn't mean he was going to throw caution into the wind. For all he knew, there could be squatters inside the building. While he knew his armor could protect him, he wasn't keen on breaking the bones of homeless people. But there was something wrong this neighborhood, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Hey, V, wake up, I need some help." He said as he snapped his fingers.

The armor once more whirred to life as the helmet's optics lit up, indicating that it was once more being controlled.

" **What is it, now, boss? You need me to hold your hand walking in the dark?"**

"Freaking smartass..." Whitley muttered under his breath before he spoke, "No, V.I.C., I don't need you to hold my hand. I need you to check something for me."

" **Check what, exactly?"**

The young man spoke, "This entire block. Do you notice anything odd about it?"

The AI moved the armor's helmet side to side, observing the buildings and the street. He then told his creator, **"Yeah. It's quiet. Way too quiet. There isn't a single light on in the windows either. Not even the street lights are on. Creepy."**

Whitley nodded, "Exactly. There should at least be two or three lights on, but there are none."

He quickly told the AI, "V.I.C., I want you to run a search on this particular city block. Cross check every known database. I want to know everything."

The AI nodded with the armor's helmet and immediately set about performing his task. Seconds passed as he combed through every known database within the kingdom. Whitley knew this when the helmet's optics began to flash erratically. The optics stopped flashing after several seconds had passed.

V.I.C. looked to his creator and told him, **"It's empty. This entire block is completely uninhabited and has been for six years."**

Whitley was honestly surprised to hear that. He had expected that perhaps a few people resided in this part of the city, or that there was some kind of power outage, but he couldn't have imagined that it was abandoned. It just didn't make to sense to him. His grandmother has been dead for five years, but the entire block had been empty for six years? He distinctly remembered this entire part of the city being full of people when he was younger, especially when his grandmother had been alive.

"V, are you absolutely certain of this?" He asked the AI.

V.I.C. replied, **"About as certain as I am that the moon is totally busted. I checked over everything, rental records, electric company statements, even mail routes, the whole she-bang, and I found that nobody in the past six years owned or rented property in this neighborhood except for one person. That person was your own granny."**

"Well, of course she did, we're standing in front of her apartment." Whitley spoke, gesturing to the building in question.

" **Yes, boss, she owned that building, but she also owned the complex behind us."** The AI pointed to the apartment complex across the street.

He pointed to the intersections leading to this street, **"The buildings on those streets."**

He spread his arms about, **"Every building surrounding your grandma's home is listed as having been owned by her and no one has tried to buy any property since she died!"**

Whitley stood there in silence as the words poured from V.I.C.s artificial voice. His grandmother owned practically an entire block for six years, and nobody had lived there during that entire time? That did not explain the number of people he had seen on the streets during that time. He had rightly thought that people would continue to live here, and yet the evidence to the contrary was right here in full view. What had his grandmother been doing with all these buildings? Who were those people he saw on the streets whenever he visited? And why was this entire block completely abandoned, even after five years?

He didn't know the answers to all of these questions. But he had a feeling that they lied in her apartment. He didn't what he'll find, and he can only wonder as to what was hidden within.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward, approaching the front door cautiously. He looked back to V.I.C, motioning for the AI to follow him. The artificial intelligence nodded and obeyed the command, standing closely behind in case the boy needed to don the armor again. Once they were within a few inches of the door, Whitley pulled out the ring of keys his grandmother had bequeathed to him and found the key he was sure would unlock the door. Now standing in front of the doorway, the boy raised his hand and thrust the key into the lock, which connected with a satisfying. He twisted the key, enabling the lock's release. Satisfied, he pressed his hand against the hard wooden door to open it. Applying as little force as he can, he slowly pushed the door forward.

 **CREE-ACK!**

The door fell downward with a loud thud, ripping the door hinges right off of the doorway, with the key still in the lock. Five years of neglect had not been kind to the wooden frame of the entry. It only took the most minimum of force to break it. Whitley stared at the door with a puzzled expression; his eyes wide as saucers and his mouth completely slack-jawed. He hadn't expected that to happen.

His creation looked at the door and dumbly spoke, **"Uhhh...** **Was that supposed to happen? I mean, I never used a door before, but I was under the impression they swing, not fall."**

Whitley didn't answer him as he kneeled down to pry the ring of keys from the lock. Once he had secured the keys, he deposited them within his pocket. He told the sentient computer, "Let's go."

They walked over the fallen door, careful as to not break with their footsteps. They were now inside the derelict ruin of what was once Toni Schnee-Stark's home. Whitley pulled out his scroll and activated the flashlight function, which immediately lit his surroundings, giving him a clear view of what laid before within 20 inch radius. He wondered if he should have bought a flashlight when he bought the rubber boots. He walked forward, entering the main hallway.

V.I.C. followed closely behind, strolling without a care. The armor's optics had a night-vision function, allowing him a view of the area without any light. Whitley stopped and said, "Alright, it is 3 o'clock right now, meaning we only have about an hour and a half to search the place before I have to go back to Rhodey's. If we don't find anything, we'll come back again tomorrow."

He told his creation, "V, you check the floors above. The foundation might be crumbling, but with the Repulsors you can hover above the floor. I'll check this floor and the basement. We meet back here at 4:30. Understand?"

The AI nodded and gave a quick salute. He activated the thrusters on the armor's boots and gauntlets and hovered inches above the floor as he was ordered. He floated over to the staircase at the end of the hallway and ascended upward toward the second floor. Whitley heard the low whirring of the repulsors echoed throughout the empty domicile. The young man once more turned on the flashlight function on his scroll and entered the living room.

He felt strange standing in that room after so many years. The last time he had ever stepped foot in this room was when he was eleven, two weeks before his grandmother died. When he had last seen this room, everything within the room, from the walls and to the furniture, had looked bigger to him. It had also been pristine, cleaned to the point that it seemed more like a model home than a lived space. It felt like home to him.

But then five years passed. What was once looked like a home now resembled the set of a Midnight Zone episode. The once varnished wooden floors were chipped and slowly rotting away. The once clean, pristine blue wall paper was dirty, torn, and stripping away. Much of the furniture, which had been kept within the apartment, was now wrapped tightly in translucent, plastic coverings. It felt... _disgusting_ , in his opinion, to see his beloved grandmother's home in such a sorry state.

He walked over to the wall on his left. Upon this wall, he saw various framed pictures. Somehow, despite everything that has happened to this place, the pictures were undamaged by the ravages of time, save for the thick sheets of dust that had accumulated over their surfaces. He swiped his hand across the glass of the first frame. He saw beneath the dust, a faded photo of his grandparents, young and newly married. His grandfather looked to be in his late twenties, tall, strong, handsome, and with the faintest signs of a growing beard upon his face. Rather than a pristine business suit, he was decked out in smudged-up and sooty grey coveralls, smiling despite how dirty he was. Standing next to him, wrapped lovingly within his left arm, was his grandmother, dressed in matching coveralls, equally as dirty, yet somehow quite beautiful. Her shoulder-length black hair was tied back into a ponytail, her dark blue eyes twinkling in amusement as she laughed at her husband.

Whitley wished he had known his grandfather. He had died months before Weiss was born, and what they knew about him was from stories their grandmother told them, as well as the few memories their older sister had of him. He had often been described as a kind and jolly man, with a mischievous side to him. Apparently it was this aspect of him that drew his grandmother to him.

He looked to the second photo and wiped the dust away. Again, he saw his grandparents, now in their early forties. His grandfather had finally grown out his signature beard and his grandmother's hair was shorter and starting to lose its luster. They were smiling, only not at each other, but at the three children standing with them.

Standing proudly in front of his grandfather was a black-haired, blue-eyed boy, about thirteen years of age, dressed in a finely pressed white tuxedo. Whitley recognized him as his Uncle William. He had died during the Faunus War. Standing in front of her mother none other than his own mother, Willow, aged 10, dressed in an extravagant white dress, smiling without a care in the world. It appeared that she had lost a tooth. Finally, he beheld the youngest of the children, his Uncle Wilt, only six years old at the time, dressed in a tuxedo matching his older brothers. He didn't know much about his Uncle Wilt, other than that he had health problems and disappeared months before Weiss was born. His last recorded location was in a village in Anima, working as a doctor.

As he looked upon this photo, Whitley couldn't help but draw comparisons to his own family's portrait. The children in the photo acted nothing like he and his sisters had. His mother and her brothers acted as any child would for a photo, with their parents all smiles at their antics. He and his siblings, on the other hand, acted as nothing more than props for their controlling father, to paint a picture of his power as the new Schnee patriarch. In this instance, he couldn't help but feel jealous of his mother for having a happier childhood, in spite of all the tragedy that would come her way later in life.

As he approached the third photo, he felt his scroll vibrate, signifying a call. Recognizing the caller, He pressed the answer button and put it on speaker, saying, "What is it, V.I.C.?"

 **"Just callin' to let you know I finished searching the second floor." **The AI reported, **"Nothing up here except bedrooms and bathrooms. Any explanation on why an old woman all on her lonesome would want extra bedrooms?"**

"She gave us our own personal rooms to use whenever we stayed with her. They were smaller than what we were used to." The young man explained before chuckling, "Heh-heh, sometimes it felt like we were stepping into another world every time we stayed here."

" **Okay, good to know. I'm gonna go check the third floor now. How are things on your end?"**

"Got a little sidetracked with a trip down memory lane, but I'm going to check the rest of the room now," He said, "Call back if you find anything."

" **Got it, boss... Oh, and one more thing before I check off,"** V.I.C. told the young man.

"What is it?"

" **The suit's audio receptors are picking up a faint breeze in that room."**

"Well, yeah, the front door's on the floor, of course we're gonna hear the wind." He replied incredulously.

" **I don't think you were listening, dude. I said the breeze was coming from** _ **in**_ **the room, not from outside of it."**

Whitley paused as he took in what V.I.C. had just told him. Somewhere in the living room, there was a small gust of wind blowing from within it. The strong winds of the cold Mantlian night were heard as clearly as one would hear thunder, yet the suit was able to pick up what his own ears hadn't. This required further investigation.

"Thanks for the heads up, V. I'll try and find whatever's causing it." He said before ending the call.

Stepping away from the pictures, Whitley set about searching for the source of the phantom breeze. He slowly walked about the room, methodical in his steps, treading lightly so as to not generate much noise with each step. He tried to filter out all other noise, hoping to tune his ears onto the sound he was searching for. Minutes passed as he listened and searched, slowly making his way across the entirety of the room.

But with each sluggish step he took, he felt his patience staring to run out on him. This tedious and admittedly aggravating task was honestly starting to grate on his nerves.

He wondered if this was just V.I.C. trying to mess with him, a sort of payback for making him wait all day within Mantle's sewers.

 _Maybe I should take away his cat video privileges again,_ He mused, as that was often the best way to enforce good behavior out of the childish AI. _Of course, I can also rewrite his speech patterns. Heh, will he still be a smartass when he has the voice of a helium addicted mouse?_

While considering his options regarding V.I.C.s punishment, he found that he was nearing the bookcase, which had long since been cleared. That's when he heard what sounded like a very soft whistle. He stopped in his tracks and turned to the bookcase. He listened intently and discovered that there was indeed a small and barely audible breeze blowing into the living room. V.I.C. hadn't been messing with him.

 _You know what? I take back everything I intended to do, V._ He mentally apologized.

He faced the bookcase and began searching. He studied the piece of furniture, scrutinizing its features for anything out of the ordinary. All in all, it was a rather unimpressive bookcase, six feet tall and 2 feet wide, about as average as they come. And that was aroused his suspicions. This was not the same bookcase his grandmother had owned in life. Her bookcase had spanned the length of an entire wall. But the last time he had seen it was about a year before her death, during his last visit to her home. Yet, somehow, this bland piece of furniture had become the focus of his search, all because he heard a breeze.

 _Unless, what I'm really looking for is behind it._

He turned his attention away from the bookcase and onto the wall. He flashed his Scroll onto the wall, to inspect it for any peculiarities. He found nothing on the right side of the bookcase and immediately went to the left. It was then that he saw something in the wallpaper, a strange protrusion that ran up the wall. It almost resembled piping, albeit very small. His eyes followed the length of the pipe from where it edged the ceiling and downward. It was then that he saw that it led to and ended right at a light switch, which was covered by a switch plate. A plate that that was secured to the wall with only a single screw.

Curious, he pressed his hand on the switch plate. To his surprise, the plate somewhat slid.

 _That's not right..._

He pressed his hand further and swiped it up, which in turn caused the plate to slide upward. That's when he saw it. Hidden beneath a nonfunctional light switch was a lock.

He dialed in V.I.C.'s number and called, "V, get down to the living room. I found something."

He ended the call. He fished the ring of keys from his pants pocket and immediately searched for a key. But just as he was about to, his gaze fell on the lock again. If the hidden lock surprised him, then what he saw next shocked him. Rather than having a small incision for a key, he saw what resembled more a USB port. He deposited the keys and pulled out the flash drive instead.

He stared at the small device and wondered aloud, "No way..."

Despite his skepticism, Whitley chose to insert the drive into the small port-like lock. The device inserted itself without much struggle. Seconds passed as he waited for something, anything, to happen. After a full minute passed, he realized what he had done wrong. The drive was the key. One has to turn the key to unlock the door. He twisted the flash drive.

 **KRE-KRE-KRALANK!**

The sound of shifting gears was heard, causing Whitley to jump back in fright. He watched as the bookcase shook before sliding downward, as though it were melting into the floor. Where the bookcase once stood, he saw a hidden panel, which immediately slid back and to the right, retreating behind the wall. Behind this panel, he saw a dark abyss. The moment the panel slid back, a brief but powerful gust of wind shot out, blowing five years' worth of dust into the air. He stared in amazement as series of lights illuminated, revealing the dark chasm to be a hidden stairwell which led downward.

The gears ceased their shifting, leaving the apartment silent once more. Whitley stared at the stairwell with a look that was equal parts disbelief and awe. Many questions raced through his mind. Where did this stairwell lead to? How long had it been there? How had nobody noticed it?

But most of all, what in the name of Remnant on fucking roller skates had his Grandma been doing?

So shocked was he that he didn't even register V.I.C.s arrival. The AI looked at his creator, wondering why he was standing as still as a statue. Then he saw the hidden stairwell. His reaction was as such.

" **Neat... So, did your grandma know about this?"**

Whitley did not even respond.

* * *

 **Alright, I know many of you have been waiting for this chapter for months. I know many of you were probably anticipating the notification that this story had been updated on April 1** **st** **. Truthfully, I did intend to release a chapter on that day, but I was also busy at the time considering that I had been job searching. But then, more than four weeks ago, something monumentally catastrophic occurred.**

 **This catastrophe was the outbreak of Covid-19, which is still ongoing. Thankfully, I was not infected and, as of this chapter's publication, still very healthy. Unfortunately, it had completely upended various aspects of my life. My job search was effectively put on hold and I had to sequester myself away from my apartment and to my parent's house, then my brother's, and finally, my grandparents (They're all fine, by the way). Then the governor of my state issued a stay-at-home order, meaning I can't travel unless it's absolutely necessary. Hell, I can't even go back to my apartment until the stay-at-home orders are finally lifted. Not that I could actually travel anywhere, since I don't have a car. As you can imagine, these circumstances pretty much dampened my ability to write. It's just my luck that the instant I graduate college, ready to start the rest of my life, a goddamn pandemic had to happen.**

 **And when I finally got my act together, I took a look at the chapter and found it needed some more work. I also had to edit out Flynt and Neon's debut in this chapter, as their introductions felt a little out of character. They are definitely going to debut in the next chapter, this I swear, and it will be in a way that I feel is true to their characters and also much more organic than what was originally planned. And in the next chapter, you will that there is more secrets hidden under the surface, and not just Toni Stark's.**

 **So to all my readers, I would like to apologize for failing to meet the deadline. I will endeavor to continue writing. I have also entertained the idea of writing small 500-1000 snippets in another fanfic so as to keep people entertained until the next chapter of this story is complete. I have also been trying to write a new story, which is a My Hero Academia x Batman story (No, Deku does not become Batman. Another character does, and you won't expect who it is.) I have also been entertaining the idea of writing a story where Whitley goes to Beacon in place of Weiss, which would have a sort of butterfly effect. Also, I will not set a release date for the next chapter of this story. All I can say is that the next chapter is coming and it will be published in the future.**

 **And remember, this pandemic won't last forever. We are all going through a very dark tunnel and there will be light at the end of it, and it will be the brightest we'll ever see. We can only get out of this proverbial tunnel if we continue to practice social distancing and doing things like washing our hands, coughing into our elbows, and not touching our faces among other things. But above all else, just stay at home, with the people you love, either they be friends or family.**

 **Thank you, and keep calm and steady.**


	12. Under the Surface, Part 2 of 2

**The following is a non-profit, fan-made work of fiction. RWBY and Iron Man are the respective trademarked properties of Rooster Teeth Productions, LLC and Marvel Entertainment, LLC. Please support their respective franchises and releases. This means I own jack, so don't sue me, it's all for fun. (And practice, I just wanna be a better writer.)**

 **More Birthdays!**

 **Neon Katt (June 31** **st** **, 1991)**

 **Flynt Coal (September 15** **th** **, 1990)**

 **Marrow Amin (April 12** **th** **, 1987)**

 **Toni Ho (July 7** **th** **, 2004)**

 **Obadiah Stane (January 22** **nd** **, 1951)**

 **Jacques Schnee (April 1** **st** **, 1953)**

 **James Rhodes (November 15** **th** **, 1962)**

 **James Ironwood (March 5** **th** **, 1958)**

 **The Invincible Whitley Schnee**

 **Chapter 10: Under the Surface (Part 2/2)**

* * *

 **Mantle, August 10** **th** **, 2008**

 **Beneath Toni Stark-Schnee's Former Apartment**

 **39 Downey Avenue**

 **4:12 AM**

"V, for the last time, my grandma was not a godsdamn vampire!"

" **She was totes a vampire, man! How else do you explain these secret stairs... and your admittedly** _ **deathly**_ **pale skin?"**

As they descended down the spiraling staircase, with their only source of light being the dimly lit fluorescent bulbs lining the walls, the AI and genius argued over the exact nature of this hidden entrance. Somehow, V.I.C. got it into his virtual head that the late Toni Stark-Schnee had been a vampire; a day walker, to be more precise. He based this hypothesis on the facts that she lived alone, her children and grandchildren had pale skin, and the supposed underground lair beneath her apartment. Whitley, for his part, honestly can't believe that he was even debating this with his creation.

His grandmother worked as a researcher for the SDC, she wasn't a blood-sucking creature of the night. And those "facts" he tried to peddle can easily be explained by what was actually factual. She lived alone because she was a widow and her children were either dead or lived elsewhere. They lived in Solitas, which barely got any sunlight during the day, so of course they would have pale skin. Not to mention the fact that Vampires do **NOT** exist. These were undeniable facts. No supernatural hocus-pocus here, just empirically proven facts.

But the underground lair, however, was a definite possibility.

 _But having one under her home does not make her a vampire!_ The young vigilante seethed.

" **It's the only explanation. For all we know, your dear ole granny's not dead, just hibernating down there in a coffin. We need to get out and find ourselves a stake, dude!"** V.I.C. carried on, hoping to convince his creator of the danger that possibly waited for them below.

Whitley irritably asked, "And where _exactly_ are we going to find a wooden stick in Mantle?"

" **Dude, there's a freakin' bookcase upstairs! Let's just take one of the shelves, break it, and sharpen what's left!"**

"V.I.C., we aren't making a stake! Plus, we have the armor! Repulsor rays beat wooden sticks every time!" Whitley argued, his patience now running thin.

" **WE CAN'T TAKE THAT CHANCE, WHITLEY! For all we know she might be the head vampire, meaning she's possibly the strongest there is! Now, follow me back up the stairs, grab a board, and-"** The AI countered, his paranoia now in overdrive.

It was here that Whitley decided he had enough. If this went on any further, he was going to explode in rage. He took a deep breath, turned to his creation, and calmly said, "You know what, V? I've decided we're going to play a little game for the rest of our downward descent into darkness. It's called the _Quiet Game_. The rules are so simple that even a toddler can follow them. Basically, whoever keeps quiet the longest will get a special prize."

" **What's the prize?"** The AI asked, despite the dread in his coding.

"The prize is that I don't get to rewrite your speech patterns to make you sound like a helium-addicted mouse for however long I damn please." The boy told him.

A pregnant pause settled between the two. The silence ceased when the AI spoke up in fear.

" **Message received. I'd very much like to play the Quiet Game now... not that I didn't have a choice to begin with."**

"That's a good program." Whitley remarked with a smirk.

They resumed their descent in silence. Step by step, the young man and his creation followed the path laid before them. As they descended further and further down, Whitley took to speculating the purpose of this hidden stairwell. He wondered just how it was that his grandmother had kept it a secret from everyone. Even from her family. Just what had possessed her to build this secret passageway? What kind of circumstances would compel her to do so? So many questions rattling around in his mind, yet he can't seem to find any answers?

The most blaring question on his mind was one that he dreaded the most. He was frightened by the implications this question posed, as well as the possible answers to it.

That question being, had he had really _known_ his grandmother?

He didn't want to consider the horrifying possibility that his beloved grandmother, who had been the one positive influence in his childhood, was not as good a person as he thought she was. He didn't want to believe that the woman who had tucked him in at night, nurtured his interest in machinery, and cared for him as his parents should have, could be a criminal. He didn't know what to think.

What he did know was that the answers will be found wherever these stairs are leading him. He didn't know how many floors they've cleared already, and he knew for certain that it'll be a while before they reach the bottom, but he will get answers. They go further down, completely silent, the only audible sounds being the low hum of the lights and their footsteps. Then, at about 15 stories below ground, they beheld a metallic door. Whitley and V.I.C. quickly approached it, finally completing their descent.

Standing before the metal door, Whitley saw that it had an electronic lock. Upon its keypad were 10 buttons in total, numbered from zero to nine. He started pressing the "0" key repeatedly. The number appeared 6 times on the small screen. Unsurprisingly, the test code he had entered was instantly recognized as incorrect. That was 10 numbers for a code with six of them. Whitley quickly calculated and found that there were a total possible 1,000,000 combinations.

He remembered the code he tested out and thought. _Well, 999,999 now._

 _But what code to use?_ He wondered.

Out of 999,999 possible codes to use and only one can open the door. He knew he didn't have the time or patience to try out all of them. Of course, there was also the possibility that he'd get locked out after using a few codes. He may be a genius, but he wasn't a computer. Thankfully, he had a mostly sentient one in a metallic suit right behind him. He turned and addressed said computer, "Okay, V, you won the quiet game; congrats, you won't be speaking like a mouse."

The AI fist pumped with the suit's right arm and exuberantly declared, **"Boo-yah!"**

"Don't get too excited now. You still have some work to do." Whitley told him.

The AI hung his temporary head low and moaned unenthusiastically, **"Boo-yah..."**

"Oh, don't be like that. It's not like I'm asking you to hack all of Atlas or anything. I just need you to find the passcode for this lock." The young man clarified as he motioned to said lock.

" **I know I'm programmed to follow your every order. But can you maybe take back that one? I barely know this system! Who knows what kind of viruses are floating around in its code! I might catch something if I'm not careful!"** V.I.C. protested as he approached the lock, his programming keeping him from disobeying his creator.

The genius blandly replied, "V.I.C., it's just an electronic lock."

" **IS IT!? IS IT, REALLY!?"** The AI cried out in panic. He then used the suit's hand to pry the casing off of the, despite his own verbal protests. He continued ranting as he tapped into the lock's digital memory. " **SURE, IT MAY LOOK LIKE A HARMLESS LITTLE KEYPAD TO YOU, BUT FOR ALL WE KNOW IT MIGHT BE SOME KIND OF BOOBY TRAP! YOUR GRANNY MIGHT NOT'VE BEEN A VAMPIRE, BUT SHE WAS STILL DOING SOME SHADY-ASS SHIT IN THIS NEIGBORHOOD! THERE COULD BE ANYHTING BEHIND THIS DOOR, AND IT MIGHT BE- Oh, hey, I found the code."**

The AI then calmly removed his hands away from the lock. The lock flashed a green light. The Metal door promptly slid back, albeit shaking off some dust from its surface. Once the door had fully disappeared into the entry way, Whitley and V.I.C. looked through the doorway and beheld nothing but darkness. They felt a slight breeze billowing out through the doorway, but could not locate the source. Whatever room they were looking into was completely enveloped in darkness.

Whitley turned to his creation and asked, "V, turn on the suit's night vision and go in. See if you can find a light switch."

The AI gave a quick salute and immediately marched through the open doorway, the helmet's bright blue optics now a dimly lit green. Whitley immediately pulled out his scroll and pressed the clock app, activating its timer function. He turned his gaze away from the small device and back to his suit, which immediately disappeared into darkness. While he can no longer see the suit, he can hear its loud metallic footsteps. Minutes passed as he waited, with the footsteps growing fainter as the time passed. When the time had passed the two minute mark, he received a phone call from the AI.

He answered the call and spoke, "Did you find a light switch, V?"

" _Dude, you won't believe what I've found in here!"_ The computer excitedly replied, " _And yes. I did find one; pressing it now!"_

"Wait, V.I.C, no, not yet!" The young man shouted in protest.

He looked to the opening and was immediately assaulted by a bright flash. He shielded his eyes with his right hand, the gaps between his fingers granting him a glimpse of the blinding light. Slowly, his eyes adjusted themselves to the light, and started seeing the outlines of various objects. Curious, he stepped through the opening the opening, entering a room that was now visible to him.

Once his eyes had fully adjusted, he lowered his hand to take in whatever sights that awaited. What he saw left him at a loss for words, save for an awestruck, "Whoa..."

This was no room. What he saw resembled more a hangar, and a very big one at that. He looked up and beheld lighting fixtures that were nearly as bright as the sun. The ceiling they were attached to stood roughly, by his best estimates, a good 30 feet above him! As for the actual width of this area he hadn't the slightest clue. What he did know was that it was filled with objects and machinery of varying design and purpose. He saw that he stood in what must have the lounging area, if the furniture and television was anything to go by. Located in this area was an impressive computer array with various monitors, connected to three servers that were each as large as a refrigerator. Before this supercomputer was a single swiveling chair, with a wooden table that laid adjacent to it.

He approached the computer and sat in the chair. He took off his gloves and set them aside, glad to have his fingers free of the irritating and restrictive rubber coverings. He looked down upon the table and saw a rather odd sight. Upon its wooden surface was a dusty ball of red yarn, with a single thread leading to an unfinished scarf. A single tread Situated a few inches away were a pair of equally dusty red wool scarves. He looked closer at the scarves and saw that they had names stitched onto their ends, outlined in white thread. The names upon these scarves were his sister's.

He gazed back at the unfinished scarf and carefully flipped it over. Lo and behold, he saw his own name in finely stitched lettering.

"Oh, grandma..." Whitley bemoaned, tears welling up in his eyes.

These were the scarves that his grandmother had promised to make for them for the Winter Solstice. She had made one for their grandfather after they got married, and they wanted their own. They wanted something that could connect them to him. From

She never got to finish his. He held in his hands the very last thing his grandmother had ever worked on. It wasn't any impressive technology or a groundbreaking formula. It was just a simple scarf for her grandson. There was nothing world changing about a dusty, ratty piece of woven red wool, but it had meant the world to Toni Schnee.

He pulled his hands away from the scarf. After wiping away the tears with his sleeve, he turned his attention to the supercomputer. He beheld the centermost monitor, its screen covered in five years' worth of dust. As he wondered as to what he should use to wipe the dust away, he heard the sound of metal feet stamping near him. He turned his head and saw the armor standing, its helmet staring at him.

" **What are you doing, Whitley?"** The computer asked in curiosity.

"Nothing, V.I.C.," He replied. He asked his creation, "So, you still think my grandma was a vampire?"

 **"I'm, like, 98% convinced that she wasn't a vampire now."**

"Why ninety eight?" He asked with a raised brow.

" **I hate odd numbers."** The computer admitted. " **But in all seriousness, that doesn't mean she can't be guilty of something. While you were checking out those ratty old rags, I took a look around."**

"And what did you find?" He asked, curious about what the AI had discovered.

" **This entire place is packed with a lot of tech. I saw a lot of old prototypes your granny was working on. I've seen things like an electric car prototype and a rocket from the abandoned space program. But that doesn't even compare to the tunnel."**

While he was interested in the machines, Whitley was more curious about the tunnel the AI had discovered. It would explain the slight breeze he felt in this underground facility. He ordered his creation to show him the tunnel. The AI motioned him to follow as he walked away from the computer terminal. The young man followed the possessed armor, walking past the entire length of a wall before turning a corner. What he saw once he turned that corner left him slack jawed and buggy eyed.

Just as V.I.C. had told him, there was indeed a vast tunnel, with two lines of railroad tracks running through it, leading away from the complex. But it wasn't the fact that the tunnel existed that startled him. No, what left him at a loss for words was the size of the tunnel. The mouth of the tunnel was wide and tall, big enough for two trains. Whitley needed to know where this tunnel led to and just how long it was.

He turned to V.I.C. and asked him, "V, I want you to fly into that tunnel. Don't stop until you reach the end of it."

The AI nodded his temporary head and said, **"** **Got it, Boss!"**

The AI activated the thrusters in the armor's boots and flew off into the tunnel. Whitley listened as the roar of the thrusters became a distant echo before disappearing altogether. Seconds passed as he waited for a response from his creation. Wherever this tunnel led to, he knew that it must have been quite a distance, if the railroad tracks were of any indication. He can't help but wonder just what kind of project would require these tracks to be used.

 _The kind that required some heavy lifting, it appears._ The young man mused.

Seconds became minutes as he waited for a message from the AI. By that point, the young genius had taken to sitting on the ledge of the rail platform, his legs dangling over the edge. His hands tapped against the concrete floor, the rhythmic tapping somewhat keeping him calm. But he would be lying if he said that his patience wasn't running thin. He pulled up his scroll to check the time.

It was now 4:25 AM.

He had only five minutes left before he had to leave. Rhodey was due to wake up in about an hour. If he wasn't back at the apartment by then, the man will no doubt notice his absence and call the police to search for him. He'd rather not be interrogated by the police. Just one brush with the law and his father will drag him all the way back to Atlas, preventing him from seeking the truth of his abduction and whatever secrets his grandmother had hidden. That was unfortunately the best case scenario.

The worst case scenario was him being imprisoned for his small bout of vigilantism, his armor taken from him and handed over to either the army or the SDC. He'd rather destroy his armor then let his father exploit it for profit, or for Ironwood to twist it into another weapon of war. He will not let more of his inventions be used to destroy lives. He already had enough blood on his hands as it is.

Suddenly, his scroll vibrated.

He answered the call and asked. "What is it, V.I.C.?"

" _I'm done exploring the tunnel. You're not going to believe where it led me."_

"And where did it lead to?"

" _The tunnel goes to the outskirts of the Atlas Mining Pit."_

Whitley's eyes nearly grew to the size of saucers at this revelation. This tunnel led to the outer reaches of the Atlas mining pit. That's when he realized just what this tunnel was. It had once been used for the _Atlas Rising_ Project. This chasm was no doubt one of many in a subterranean network of tunnels that were used to dig out the bedrock of the floating island before its ascension. He knew that most of them had been sealed off after Atlas rose, to prevent a possible entryway for the Grimm. The rest were incorporated into Mantle's metro system. Somehow, his grandmother had found one of the abandoned tunnels, and its station platform, and converted it into her own personal workshop. If that was the case, then it begged a very important question.

What possessed his grandmother to do this? The buildings were unsettling enough, but just what compelled the old woman to rework an abandoned rail platform into a lab? He came here looking for answers, but instead he found only more questions. It was moments like this that made him hate how needlessly complicated his life has become. Of course, he didn't have a simple life either.

"All right, V, it's time to go." He told the AI.

 _"Copy that, boss. I'm on my way back now."_

Whitley ended the call and deposited his scroll back into his pocket. As he waited for the AI's return, he took a moment to observe the vast workshop his late grandmother had built. Was this underground facility his inheritance, or did it lay somewhere within it? He didn't rightfully know. However, this discovery proved to be quite fortuitous for him. This workshop would make a good base of operations for his little endeavor. It was well hidden, off the books, and completely off the grid. He can keep the armor here. He may not have found answers, but at least he found a solution for one of his problems. He can take some pride in that. He can only hope V.I.C. was as receptive to the plan as he was.

He heard the roar of the suit's thrusters in the distance. He rose to his feet and prepared himself for the flight back to Rhodey's apartment. Although a small part of him was not looking forward to navigating the sewers again. That's not to mention how uncomfortable it was wearing the rubber gloves and boots inside the armor.

 _Then again, it's not like I'm going to walk in dirty water again._ He realized with some joy.

His decision made, he promptly took off the boots, the only thing protecting his feet being his miraculously dry grey wool socks. Luckily he didn't have to wear soggy and filthy socks. He tossed the boots aside and stood silently waiting for the armor. A second later, the once distant roar of thundering thrusters became deafening as the metal suit shot straight out of the mouth of the tunnel. Quickly deaccelerating, V.I.C. maneuvered the armor into an upright stance as it hovered in the air.

The AI bellowed out through the suit's speakers, **"** **All aboard; next stop, James Rhodes' Apartment, one way trip!"**

"Cut the drama club theatrics, V, and just let me back in the armor." The boy ordered of his creation.

The armor opened up and the boy promptly jumped in. The exoskeletal frame quickly wrapped around his body, followed by the armor plating connecting folding back together, once more forming the protective shell that was Iron Man's body. From within, the young vigilante checked over the status of the armor and plotted his course back toward his new home. Once finished, he addressed his AI partner. "Alright, V.I.C., let's get going."

"Righty-o, Boss; anything else you need to do before we leave?" The AI inquired.

"Nope, I say I've done all I can for now. We'll come back and check everything else later." He replied. He then added with a grin, "And you can forget hiding in the sewer. From now on, this will be where we'll keep the armor."

"Oh, thank your gods, I thought I was gonna go _kill-all-humans_ if I stayed in those sewers any longer!" The AI cried in relief.

"Well, no need to worry any more. Now that we have a proper base of operations, we can finally move on to the next phase of the plan." The boy told his creation, "And that is information gathering. V, once you return to this, uh... wait, what should we call this place? V.I.C., do you have any suggestions?"

"Hey, it's your place, not mine. You've got to name it."

The young Schnee scrunched his face in deep thought. Through the suit's HUD, he looked over the vast underground hangar. He looked over all the strewn machinery, the long-abandoned projects, and the stacks of crates filed into rows. That's when he saw a rather unusual sight. Tucked away in a corner, covered by a tarp was an old blacksmith's anvil. He thought it odd that his grandmother would have such an antiquated tool in this place, especially with all the advanced and experimental technology stored here. Maybe it was meant to remind her of just how far technology has come and the many breakthroughs that have yet to come. To always keep moving forward, using technology in forging a better tomorrow for all of Remnant's people.

"For now, let's just call it the Forge." The boy spoke.

"Yeah, we can workshop it later; anything else we need to do before we go, Whit?"

"No, we're good. Okay, as I was trying to say before. Once you bring the armor back to the Forge, we're going to start gathering information; information on A.I.M., Savin, and whoever ordered the hit on my father. Hopefully, we can bring them to justice for all the lives they destroyed." The young Schnee explained.

The AI jubilantly cried, "Alrighty, then! Now let's blow this popsicle stand!"

The young vigilante nodded and activated the suit's thrusters, and propelled himself back toward the entrance. The door shut behind him as he ascended the hidden stairwell, before entering the living room of his late grandmother's home. He watched as the secret passage closed, with the bookshelf sliding back into place. Thankfully, he had retrieved the key before using the stairs. He promptly exited the apartment and returned to the sewers, his return to Rhodey's going unnoticed by all.

* * *

 **James Rhodes Apartment**

 **5:45 AM**

When he was younger, James Rhodes was not much of a morning person. But serving in the military, managing a business, and raising his niece had forced him to become one. Despite his changed opinions on the morning, there was one thing he did always love about the morning, regardless of his stance. The one thing that he always loved about the morning was the shower that came with it. No matter how many years have passed and how much he had grew as a person, the one thing that hasn't changed was his appreciation of a nice, relaxing 12 minute shower. In his opinion, there was nothing more soothing than the feeling of one's skin being caressed by little droplets of heated water, washing all the burdens and problems away from his mind and into the drain. In short, he really, really loved taking a shower.

But the one thing he loved more than a shower was nice, long bath. As he had taken the morning off to help Whitley become accustomed to his new home, the retired military man thought it prudent to take a bath. That and the fact he was expecting guests today. And so Rhodey woke up, shot straight out of the bed, donned his favorite bathrobe, and was now sauntering over to the second story bathroom. As far as he knew, his godson would not wake up for another thirty minutes, giving him ample time to take a long drawn out bath. With each meticulous step, he began to smile in anticipation at the imminent relaxation he was going to feel.

But as he neared the bathroom, his excitement became befuddlement when he saw light peeking through the closed door. As he got closer, he heard the sound of water spraying through the shower head. Just before he could knock on the door, he heard the bathroom's current occupant shut the water off. Finally, Rhodey knocked on the door three times.

"Is that you, Rhodey?" He heard Whitley ask from behind the closed door.

"Uh, yeah, Whitley, it's me." He answered, "Why are you up so early?"

"Oh, well, you know, moving luggage really wore me out. But it also really made me work up a sweat. You know how it goes." The boy answered back.

"Right, yeah..." Rhodey said unsurely, "Well, there's an extra bathrobe in the bathroom closet."

"Don't worry; I've got it on now. Also, I put my dirty clothes in the hamper already." The boy replied.

Suddenly, the door knob turned, followed by the opening of the bathroom door. A quick blast of hot air escaped the opening. Standing in the doorway was Whitley Schnee, dressed in a red bathrobe with a white towel wrapped around his hair. The boy smiled and said, "All yours, Rhodey. Don't worry I didn't take long, so there's still hot water. See you later!"

With that said the boy walked past his appointed guardian and made a beeline for his room. The man watched the boy as he walked quickly to his room, closing the door behind while waving at him. Despite his initial surprise, the man got over it quickly and entered the bathroom. Still, he wondered how the Schnee was able to take a shower with that thing on his chest. The Schnee had informed of the device that was keeping his heart from being shredded by shrapnel, but he didn't know that it was waterproof. He can only hope it doesn't rust or else the boy might get tetanus.

"Ugh, just take your bath, Rhodey. Relax, and then worry." The man told himself.

It was still early in the morning and he had enough time for a relaxing bath. He had a feeling that today was going to be... interesting.

* * *

 **Mantle**

 **Mantle International Aerodrome, Landing pad 12**

 **12:30 PM**

The Bullhead touched down on the platform without a hitch. The side doors slid back, exposing the occupants within to the outside world. The first person to disembark was a dark-skinned teenager with shortly cut black hair, who wore clothes that were both stylish and functional. He was dressed in a stylish black jacket with cyan lines running down the arms, under which he wore an opened black vest worn over a white dress shirt. His blue pants were secured around his waist by a black belt, his feet protected by a pair of black and silver sneakers. A gym bag, containing other clothes, was slung over his right shoulder, and in his left he held a trumpet case. He stood confidently, his posture straight, and he oozed an aura of cool that few can ever hope to match. In fact, one might say that he was coolness personified.

"Hey, Flynt, I think you forgot this!" He heard a girl's voice exclaim.

He turned on his heel and took hold of a black fedora that was tossed to him. He secured the fedora upon his head, completing his look. He smiled and addressed the one who had tossed him his beloved headwear. "Thanks, Neon. I can't believe I almost left my lucky hat behind."

The next person to exit the flying vehicle was a smiling teenaged girl whose clothes were designed with more of an emphasis on style rather than functionality. Her orange hair, usually done up in two pig tails, was mostly bunched into a bob atop her head, save for her bangs, which lacked her trademark dyed highlights. Around her neck was a white choker with a bell attached to it. Her upper body was covered by a reversible white and pink winter jacket, over which she wore a white sweater. Tucked away within her jacket was a pair of nunchaku. She wore black thermal leggings, over which she wore a pair of light blue jeans with some tears in them.

The pants had a hole that allowed her cat tail to poke through, showing her Faunus status proudly to the world. Her look was completed by a pair of white canvas sneakers with pink cats drawn upon them. Like her partner, she too had a gym bag filled with clothes, but she also had a pair of roller skates too. Unlike her partner, she chose to carry herself with a bit of levity, with a more relaxed posture, and projecting an aura of sunshine and rainbows.

Neon looked over the city from the landing platform and whistled appreciatively. She happily remarked, "There's no place like home."

Flynt smiled, "Yeah. After everything that's happened, I think we were due for a change in scenery."

And then he frowned, "Even though we're only here to babysit some snooty, privileged rich kid."

She was well aware of her friend's disdain toward the Schnee Family. Especially since the family's company drove his father's Dust shop out of business.

"Is it babysitting if he's around our age?" Neon asked, hoping some levity will brighten the mood.

Flynt did not lose his sour disposition as he answered, "Dunno. Look, our job is to protect the guy... it doesn't mean I have to like him."

Neon tried to speak only to be cut off by another voice. "You don't have to like it, Mr. Coal, but a job's a job. When you're a fully-fledged Huntsman, you're going to be working for and with a lot of people you'll dislike."

The two teenaged hunters-in-training turned to face the bullhead. Stepping out of the vehicle was a taller dark-skinned man, who was a few years older than the two. His long greenish-black hair was tied back into a short bun. His clothing style favored functionality over style, befitting a military man, as he was dressed in a buttoned-up grey wool coat, under which he wore a white tactical turtleneck. He is legs were protected by a pair of black trousers, with nary a wrinkle on them, through with his gray and bushy dog tail poked through. The shined leather boots completed the ensemble.

Strapped to his back, with straps secured around his shoulders and waist was a camping bag, filled with clothes, Dust, and his trusty boomerang-rifle. He stood proudly on the platform, his chest puffed out in pride, his fists pressed against his sides, and sporting a confident yet eager smile on his face. With his stance, he attempted to exhume a professional and respectable air about him, a kind of demeanor that told people he was all business but very approachable.

The two teenagers, however, thought it made him look like a huge dork. Especially since the man's bushy dog tail was wagging erratically behind him, showing his excitement and ruining the confident image he was trying to project.

The man standing before them was Marrow Amin, the newest member of the elite Ace Operatives, and their supervisor for this mission. The General had assigned him that task as his first mission, a sort of test to see if he was truly Ace-Ops material; the logic behind this assignment being that if Marrow can't handle watching two teenagers, then he can't handle the high-stakes missions that the team are usually given. Of course, he took the whole thing in stride, seeing it as another challenge to conquer.

He approached the two teenagers and crossed his arms, addressing them in a tone one usually heard from a teacher. "Now, we have some transportation waiting for us outside of the terminal, along with our guide. The driver will be waving a sign with the word "Acorn" written on it."

Flynt blinked and asked, "Acorn; why Acorn?"

"That is the name that has been assigned to our little cadre." Marrow Explained. "From here on, we will be known as Team ACN or Acorn... well, we will be, until such a time when the other two students assigned to this mission are ready."

"Yeah, but why Acorn, though?" Flynt asked, unsure about the name. "Because I'm not gonna tell people I'm a proud member of Team Acorn. I respect myself too much to say that."

Somewhat deflated, the specialist tried to reason. "Well, because it has our initials in the name; A for Amin, C for Coal, and N for Neon."

"But how did we get _Acorn_ if there's no R? Wouldn't it just be _Achin_ '? Is the R silent? Ooh, or do we have another teammate we don't know about? How do you explain that, Mr. Amin? Can you explain it...?" Neon asked as she began hurling question after question at the specialist.

Marrow did his best to follow the girl's every word, but found himself losing her around every other word. He wondered just how it was possible for one person to speak for so long without taking a breath. Not once in the young woman's questioning did she pause or even hesitate when speaking her mind. Her inquisitive barrage ceased when her partner cried out, "Neon!"

Upon hearing her name, the girl's face flushed from embarrassment, "I am so, so very sorry! There's no filter between my mouth and my brain, and when I get really excited or nervous I start rambling, even when I don't want to... See, there I go, rambling again!"

She chuckled nervously, worried that she made a bad impression on the specialist. Marrow simply waved it off, chalking it up to pre-mission nervousness. He had those back when he first started at the academy. He still does, sometimes, but that's irrelevant. He's got an image to uphold in front of the kids.

As the Faunus girl laughed, her teammate observed her behavior with an appraising eye. On one hand, it was relieving to see her acting like this after what had happened to their team. But he knew she still felt shaken up by what happened, and that she felt guilty for what had happened to their team. Even he felt guilty, knowing that Ivori and Kobalt, two boys whom they barely knew, stood up for her when he called for caution. He had failed his best friend and his teammates already and he wasn't going to let it happen again. This mission was their chance to prove they were worthy to be hunters, and he will see that he and Neon are recognized as such; even if that recognition had to come from guarding some stuck-up, snotty, privileged Schnee.

Of course, they had to get started on that mission first.

He looked to his compatriots and said, "Look, we're getting a little off track here, so why don't we go meet our driver? We can't exactly start this mission by keeping him waiting."

Marrow clapped the young man's back and grinned, "An excellent idea, Mr. Coal! Oh, and Ms. Katt, there's no need to be so nervous, it's good to have a teammate who's not afraid to speak their mind. The rest of our luggage will be carried in by the ground crew. Now, let us be off, to our mission!"

The older specialist walked away, his right arm upward and a single finger pointing the way to adventure. The two teenagers watched the man as he walked away, noting his overenthusiasm, and came to the ultimate conclusion.

"He is such a dork." Flynt said with an amused smile.

"Yeah, but he seems like a nice guy." Neon added with a giggle, "He's like that adorkable older brother trying too hard at being a cool adult."

"Speaking of brothers, I heard Char and his husband adopted a baby." Flynt spoke as he walked away, starting a conversation with his best friend and partner. "When we're not busy guarding the trust fund kid, I'd like to spend my free time meeting my new niece."

"Oh, really, good for them," Neon remarked as she joined him, only to remember, "Oh, shoot, I forgot to text Tommy we're back... and I have to call my Dad, too! No, wait, I think he's at work right now."

Flynt laughed and told his oldest friend, "Don't worry about it. Just make it a surprise. In fact, I think my sister is watching your brother right now. Why not make it a surprise party?"

And so the two friends walked off to join their supervisor, discussing their plans for the next week, planning their days carefully so as to spend time with their families and their old friends in Mantle. While they knew the last few weeks have been tough on them, they were glad that things were finally turning in their favor.

They did wonder, though, what their means of transportation would be.

* * *

Outside of the airport, the two teens stared slack jawed and buggy eyed at what would be their ride through the city. So shocked they were that Neon's tail was as still as a post and Flynt's sunglasses were close to falling off of his face. Of course, one wouldn't blame them for their surprise. The object of their curiosity was parked on the curb of the street, in front of the entrance; it's sleek and newly polished stretched black exterior glinting under the sun. It was a limousine. They were expecting their driver to transport them in a modest little car, not the luxurious machine in front of them. As their driver and Marrow discussed their route, the two hunters-in-training conversed between themselves.

"Okay, I know I said I like doing things in style, but this is too much, even for me." Flynt remarked as he observed the stretched car.

"This is insane! I mean, I've always wanted to be inside a limo, but not when I'm working!" Neon exclaimed, "It's almost like they want people to know who we're working for... But then again, it's a limo!"

"But Neon, the general told us to keep a low profile while we're here. You know, being subtle? A limo's about as subtle as a, uhm... a pink rabbit doing the cha-cha on a busy highway in broad daylight." Flynt argued, albeit cursing himself for his poor choice in words.

His strange analogy did not go unnoticed, as Neon gave him a weird look, "That's a really weird analogy, Flynt."

"Yeah, realized it as soon as I said it, but I'm not wrong. I mean, how are we gonna keep a low profile riding around the city in something like this?" He reasoned before leaning into the passenger window, his reflection staring back at him.

Suddenly, the window rolled down, revealing the limo had a passenger. The stranger in question was a pale man, middle-aged and very bald, dressed in a finely pressed blue business suit. The two teenagers stared at the stranger, bewildered by his sudden appearance. They had been informed that they would be traveling with someone to their destination, but they didn't think their guide would show up in a limousine.

The stranger smiled and waved at the two, "Hello there. I'm the one General Ironwood sent to meet you. Please, put your things in the trunk and come inside, you're gonna catch a cold standing out there."

Despite themselves, the two hunters-in-training took the man's suggestion and moved to the back of the limo. The vehicle's trunk opened, and much to their surprise, found that the rest of their luggage from the bullhead had already been loaded into the large compartment. Then again, it felt like an eternity getting through the ATA, as the group's record-setting incompetence presented itself once more. It had taken close to twenty minutes to convince the people running the metal detector that the infernal machine was busted. Twenty minutes being the exact amount of time needed to move their belongings to this vehicle. The two teens placed their bags within the trunk and then closed it.

They walked to the passenger doors and opened them, entering their temporary means of transport. Planting their behinds on the soft cushiony seats, they saw that they were facing the back of the vehicle, which granted them a view of the vehicle's other occupants. They saw the baldhead man staring at them with a smile, showing that he meant no ill will to them. Sitting next to him was a pretty blonde girl with grey eyes, dressed comfortably for the weather, her attention focused entirely on the book in her hands. Sitting separately from them, in a wheelchair that was strapped down to the floor, was a blonde haired boy, also prepared for the chilly weather, his eyes centered solely on the Scroll he held in his hands. Nobody said anything as they sat there waiting for the final passenger.

The silenced ceased when the older man spoke up, "Well, I don't know about you all, but I've had about enough of this silence. I'm afraid I've neglected to introduce myself."

He held his hand out, "I'm Obadiah Stane, CFO of the Schnee Dust Company."

Of the two hunters, it was only Flynt who recognized the name. The man sitting before was none other than Jacques Schnee's right hand man. For a brief moment, a spike of anger surged through him, before being subdued by the calm and collected professionality that had been drilled into him by his training. Without betraying any emotion, he took the offered hand and shook it, "Flynt Coal, Team FNKI... and another team."

He refused to say 'Team Acorn'.

"Oh, I'm well aware, James made sure to give me your names before our meeting." Stane told the young man.

Flynt was surprised to hear that the man was on a first name basis with the general. The businessman then looked at his partner and said, "Which means you must be Neon Katt."

The orange-haired girl grinned, "Yep! Neon Katt, Partyer extraordinaire and certified badass, ready to take names, kick ass, and looking great while doing it."

Stane chuckled, "Oh-ho, my, that's quite the claim! I guess we have nothing to worry about with someone like you around."

Flynt, on the other hand, was not as amused by his friend's boasting, and the rather carefree tone she used in saying it. Especially since she was striking up conversation with the right-hand of the man he hated most in the world. Then again, it was nice seeing her being so confident after what happened. It showed she was getting better.

Stane motioned to the girl next to him, "Now, this young lady is my daughter, Whitney. Say hello to our guests, dear, you don't want to be rude."

The girl raised her eyes from her book and beheld her fellow teens. To Neon, she gave a short but nervous wave, which the Faunus returned with disproportionate enthusiasm. When her grey eyes moved to Flynt, they nearly widened. She promptly returned them to her book, with a barely noticeable blush dusting her cheeks. Flynt didn't catch the blush, but Neon did.

The girl smiled and mischievously thought. _Ah,_ _somebody has a cruuush⁓_

The man then pointed to the teenager in the wheelchair, "And this is my son, Ezekiel, Zeke for short, one of the smartest people in the world, in my humble opinion!"

Zeke, unlike his sister, did not even register the presence of the two hunters-in-training. No, his attention was fully on the Scroll in his hands, his eyes centered solely on the small screen with curiosity.

His father called to him, "Uh, Zeke?"

Now aware that his father wanted his attention, the teenager looked up from his scroll, finally taking notice of the limo's new occupants. The young man let out a nervous chuckle and introduced himself, "Sorry. As my dad said, the name's Zeke. I'm sorry for not saying hello when you both came in, I was just fascinated by this video I've been sent."

Interested, Neon leaned forward and inquired, "What kind of video?"

"Oh, just something that was posted on the eighth. Got millions of views, but most think it a hoax." He said to her. "An old college buddy sent the link to me, asked me for my opinion on the subject of the video."

"Can I see the video?" She asked.

"I don't see why not. You were probably going to see it eventually. Here, take my scroll." The young Stane handed the device to the girl.

Neon held the device in her hands and looked down on the screen. She saw that on the timestamp that it was a short video, close to two minutes long. The video had been paused at around 40 seconds. She pressed the rewind button, restarting the video. It was in black and white, and somewhat lacking quality, but it was clear to her the footage was from a security camera at a convenience store. Specifically, it was footage of a convenience store robbery. She nudged Flynt to watch the video with her, to which he silently agreed.

The two teenagers watched as the elderly woman, obviously the shopkeeper, pressed herself against the wall, the robber aiming a gun at her chest. They watched in fear as the man turned his attention on an equally old man, presumably her husband, no doubt threatening him to oblige his demands. It was after the old man moved to the back door that the robber's aggression worsened, his posture becoming rigid and firm as he pressed the weapon against the side of the terrified woman's face. Both Neon and Flynt felt their blood boil at the act, wanting nothing more than to tear the criminal in half.

But then something happened. The robber turned on his heel and froze in shock. Slowly, a fourth figure entered through the front entrance and began walking between two aisles toward the criminal. The teens anger quickly dissipated, replaced by shock and awe as they stared at the new arrival. The newcomer was tall, at about six feet, and showed no fear as he approached the frightened robber. But what really struck them was the fact that the figure was wholly metallic in appearance, his body glinting under the glow of cheap fluorescent lighting. The robber's panic finally overcame as he fired his pistol at the metal man. To the teen's wonder, short sparks lit up across the metal figure's chest, and items on the aisles started exploding, no doubt from deflected bullets.

The robber's gun soon ran out of ammo, prompting him to reload. Before he even had the chance, the metal man snatched the weapon and snapped it in half without any effort. They watched the robber stand there, dumbfounded by the display, before his brain finally caught up to him. He tried to move to the left, only to receive a fierce uppercut from the metal man. The teen's jaws dropped when they saw that the punch packed enough force to send the robber flying right into the ceiling, leaving him stuck there, as his dangling legs were all that were visible to the camera. The metal man promptly turned toward the now uncovered store owners and promptly exited the store.

The video ended just as the robber's body fell to the floor, covered in plaster. The two hunters-in-training were silent for a scant few seconds, before Neon returned the scroll to its owner. Zeke looked at his fellow teens and asked, "So, what are your thoughts?"

Flynt spoke first, "Was that faked? I mean, that had to be staged, right?"

Neon piped in, "I don't know, Flynt. It looked real enough, and it could have been some guy in a costume. A really detailed one, though. Mad props to whoever made it, it really looked like a robot."

"Well, actually, it was real. That robber is at the hospital, getting his jaw wired shut." Zeke explained, causing the teens to wince at that info.

Flynt said, "Damn. I saw it, still trying to believe it, but this metal guy sounds like a tank."

"Yeah, but his form was terrible. His legs were too close to one another, and he didn't even assume a defensive stance. Whoever this guy is, I can tell they're not a fighter." Neon spoke, surprising everyone with her analysis. When she noticed their stares, she clarified, "My dad's a boxing fan."

Obadiah smiled, "A man of culture, it seems. Anyway, we've gotten a little off-track here. Now, since we all know each other's names, let me give you the finer details of your assignment. I know the general gave you a briefing, but there certain details that you both must be privy to... As well as Mr. Amin, once he's finished debating with the driver."

Suddenly, the right side door opened, with Marrow entering the vehicle soon after. The specialist took a seat next to Flynt. He then addressed the bald businessman, "Mr. Stane, our route has been secured. Now, let us discuss the finer det-"

The specialist ceased speaking when he noticed the man's children. He found his voice again and asked, "Uh, Mr. Stane, would you care to share mission details with us at a time when only those with the proper clearance are present?"

Stane replied, "Oh, of course, Mr. Amin. I apologize, my children are friends of young Whitley and they just wanted to see how he was holding up. You can't fault them for that, can you?"

Marrow promptly apologized, "I meant no disrespect, sir. It's just that this is a very delicate operation, and we have to be careful regarding security. You know how it is."

"Trust me, young man, I do. When one has been in business for as long as I have, you tend to get drawn up in these sorts of things."

Marrow nodded and dropped the conversation. He looked over at his two subordinates and asked, "So, have you two been behaving while I was gone?"

"It's been only five minutes." Flynt remarked, "What exactly could we have done in that time?"

"But we did watch a MeTube video." Neon innocently reminded her friend.

Flynt sighed and said, "Not the point, Neon."

Marrow's eyebrows rose in interest as he asked, "Oh, really, a video? Which one? Wait, don't tell me, was it the one with the cat and the exercise video?"

"Uh, no, it was the one about, uh..." Flynt tried to explain, only to remember he hadn't caught the title of the video.

"A video titled, _The Invincible Iron Man_." Zeke said, filling in the needed information.

"Iron Man," Marrow tested the name out. "What, is it a movie or something? I don't really stay caught up in pop culture these days."

"I believe he's a vigilante, Mr. Amin." Stane spoke, "Another _real-life superhero,_ like that Spider-Guy from Vale."

"Spider-Man, dad," A blushing Whitney corrected her father as she continued reading her book, all while stealthily sneaking glances toward an unknowing Flynt.

"Wait, so Atlas has its very own _superhero_ now?" Marrow said incredulously, "Great, as if the Maggia, Tong, and Fang weren't bad enough; now we got some vigilante who thinks he's above the law."

The limo began to move, prompting everyone inside to buckle their seatbelts. As the vehicle merged into traffic, the conversation began once more.

"Still, whoever he is, you have to admit he's got some amazing." Zeke opined, "If what the video showed was any indicator, this technology has got to be years, maybe decades, ahead of what most companies are developing. Even the SDC hasn't built anything like this."

"What about Hammer?" Neon asked.

Zeke parroted with a scowl, "What _about_ Hammer?"

Both teens took that as a sign that the young man was not a fan of Justin Hammer. Not that they can blame him. Still they couldn't help but wonder. If this Iron Man was real, and not some elaborate hoax, then what was he really? Was he some kind of robot or a man in a highly advanced suit of armor? They can't begin to imagine who would have built such a fine piece of technology. The builder had to be some kind of genius.

* * *

 **Rhodey's Apartment**

 **1:45 PM**

"I'm telling you, Rhodey, this is a work of genius!"

Rhodey said nothing as he sat in his living room, but he wondered just what his godson was talking about. After giving the Schnee the items he had requested from the store, the young man promptly retreated upstairs. It had been two hours since then, and the boy has yet to return. Of course, given what the boy was using, he knew it would take some time before he returned. The boy's recent exclamation indicated he was finished. The man's speculation was answered when he heard footsteps upstairs, before descending down the stairs. He looked to the open entrance of his living room.

Standing there, in that open space, with a proud smile on his face, was Whitley Schnee. The boy had changed into clothing more suited for the weather, wearing a black polo neck sweater with khaki pants. On his feet, he wore white sneakers, trimmed in red. But it was not the boy's change in attire that was the most drastic and shocking. His once neatly combed snow white hair was now a messy, wavy mop of black hair, as though he ran his hands through his hair. His eyes, once a light and icy arctic blue, were now a deep and warm ocean blue.

For the briefest moment, Rhodey swore he didn't see Whitley, but rather the boy's late uncle Will, who looked remarkably similar at that age. That was until his eyes recognized the boy's facial features and the shape of his eyes, traits he mostly inherited from his mother. At a distance, the boy could pass for a totally different person. Thank the gods for hair dye and contact lenses.

"Well, how do I look?" Whitley asked with a grin.

"Different," Rhodey dryly replied, "Are you sure you want to go through with this, Whit, It'll be a hassle washing that stuff out of your hair when you need to. Can't you just wear a hat?"

"No, can't take the risk of a hat getting blown away by a strong wind." Whitley said, "Besides, I'll just dye my hair again every few weeks after a haircut. Trust me; this disguise is the only way that I can walk through Mantle safely. You know, without an angry mob on my heels?"

"Oh, come on, nobody hates your family that much. At least, I don't think they hate you enough to do that." Rhodey argued, hoping to talk some sense into the boy.

His plea fell on deaf ears, as Whitley quickly replied, "Rhodey, more than half of the people in this entire city, in some way, have been screwed over by my family's company. I can count, on one hand, the number of people who _don't_ hate my father, and they're not exactly good people either. Humans and Faunus, from nearly all walks of life, with every conceivable job imaginable, has some reason to hate my family... And I can't even blame them."

"Should I include you in that long list?" Rhodey asked in concern, "Because you seem really fixated on all the worst parts about your family. Or are you really just projecting your own self-loathing onto your family?"

With crossed arms, Whitley narrowed his eyes and curtly spoke, "I came here to get away from everything, Rhodey, not to play armchair psychologist with you."

"Trust me, kid, I'm no psychologist, but I don't need a degree to see you have issues. You have to understand that I'm just concerned about you." Rhodey told the young man. "Look, take it from a man who spent years grappling with his own inner demons; Running away from the problem always makes things worse."

"I'm not running away from anything!" Whitley snapped in rage. When he realized he had lost his cool, he quickly recomposed himself. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap like that. I guess I didn't get enough sleep last night."

"It's all right." Rhodey said, but not without noting the boy's behavior.

There may come a time when he'll have to get the boy professional help. He knew Whitley might hate him for doing so, but the teen's parents had more or less entrusted him with his wellbeing. Well, he was doing this mostly for Willow. Jacques, on the other hand, can go to hell for he cared. It was a sentiment that the man's son seemed to share with him. He had learned earlier that the mere mention of his father was enough to make the boy angry.

 _And given what his father had arranged, I think Whitley's opinion of the man is gonna dip even lower._ Rhodey realized as he recalled what Jacques had recently done for the boy.

"Anyway, why don't you take a seat? We're expecting company."

The boy blinked and asked, "Company? But I have somewhere to be. I need to check in on Happy and Pepper, see how Toni's adjusting to everything."

Rhodey smiled upon hearing that. He had met with the couple a few times over the past few weeks, and they were already looking like proud parents. He had even met the little girl and while she still had some lingering trauma, she was absolutely ecstatic about having a family again. Of course, Pepper had written the mayor of Gulmira to send her any photos of the girl's birth family, so that she won't forget them. Said photos were now proudly displayed on the walls of their new Mantle home. He supposed that Whitley should know that at least, but recent developments have put his plans for a visit on hold.

"And you will. Just not today; we have some important people coming over." He told his young charge.

Before Whitley can inquire further, the doorbell rang. Rhodey rose from the couch and said, "That's probably them now. Take a seat, Whitley."

"Rhodey, seriously, what's going on here?" Asked a confused Whitley, "And who's at the door?"

"Some people you know, and others that you're gonna get to know." The man cryptically replied. "Just sit right there on the couch while I let them in... and please, mind your manners."

The young man, knowing there was no negotiation with his guardian, sighed and obeyed. He walked into the living room and planted himself on the couch, wondering just who was visiting right now. They had to be pretty important for Rhodey to keep him here. The sound of the front door opening drew his attention to the open entrance way. He heard the muffled stomps of shoes upon carpeting before he saw the shadows.

"'Sup, Whit... Wait, who are you?"

After wheeling himself into the living room, Zeke Stane saw the young Schnee sitting on the couch, yet the wheelchair-bound youth did not recognize him. The different colored hair and eyes threw him off. The boy's sister followed soon after and noticed the disguised Schnee and much like her brother, a look of suspicion and unfamiliarity marred her face. It was only when she saw the features of the boy's face did she recognize him.

She spoke in unsure recognition, "Whitley?"

The boy smiled and waved at the siblings, "Hey, guys, how do you like my new look?

Zeke, now aware of who he was speaking to, said, "We knew you'd look different, but, wow, we weren't expecting this. Still, gotta say, it's a good look for you."

He then noticed something else, "Also, have you been hitting the gym, because you're looking fitter than the last time I saw you."

"Well, what can I say; I thought I was due for a change." Whitley replied with a shrug. He smiled and said, "It's good to see you both again, though. Zeke, nice to see you finally got a haircut; Whitney, you've grown your hair, and you're out and about, that's nice."

The Stane siblings were surprised by their friend's chipper attitude. After what had happened to him, they assumed the boy would have been more somber and quiet. Zeke and Whitney, having suffered and still recovering from their own personal trauma, had fully expected that kind of behavior from their friend. Instead, the boy was all smiles and seemed to more laidback than he was months ago. In their opinion, such behavior, after such a traumatic event, was more worrying than relieving.

That was when their Father appeared, who grinned at the young Schnee. "Hello there, Whitley; Wow, Rhodey told me you had a new look, but I wasn't expecting something this drastic."

Whitley looked at the bald businessman and greeted him, "Hello, Mr. Stane. What brings you out here today?"

"Oh, just doing some important work, the kind that warranted a visit. Again, that's a great look. It might help you in the long run, considering who we've brought along." Stane remarked, puzzling Whitley with those last words.

Before the Schnee could ask what the man meant by that statement, Rhodey returned. But his guardian was not alone. Following behind were three people he didn't know, nor had he ever seen before. The first stranger was a green-haired Faunus man, his trait being a long bushy dog tail, who seemed to carry himself with an overenthusiastically professional attitude. It felt as though the man was trying too hard at presenting himself as a serious and stern individual. The fact that he was smiling nervously didn't help his image either.

The second stranger was a bespectacled boy around his age, who regarded him with a gaze that was mostly neutral, yet carried an undercurrent of disdain. Whitley surmised that he must not be a fan of his family. He had a feeling that this boy was not a fan of his family. But he did have style, as he had great taste in clothing. The boy just gave off the vibe that he didn't think himself cool, but that he _knew_ he was.

Whitley also really liked the guy's hat.

The third stranger was a girl, who was quite pretty in his opinion, with orange hair bunched into a bun atop her head, who unlike her male companions regarded him with a friendly smile. Like the green-haired man, she too was a Faunus, her trait being a long pink cat tail. He suspected that the pink was actually hair dye. She seemed like a nice person.

Despite their different appearances, Whitley couldn't shake the feeling that these three must share something in common. Admittedly, they were all very attractive people, which briefly led him to assume they were models. Of course, he discarded that theory once he realized how silly it sounded. But for some reason, he can't help but feel that these three strangers were not what they seem. The only way to know their intentions was to talk to them.

"Uh, hello," The boy greeted nervously, "I admit the hair and eyes are misleading, but I am most definitely Whitley Schnee. And who might you three be?"

The green-haired Faunus calmly spoke, "A pleasure, Mr. Schnee. I am Corporal Marrow Amin, Specialist in the Atlas Military. The young man is Flynt Coal and the young lady is Neon Katt, students from Atlas Academy."

 _They're all hunters? Why would hunters be here?_ Whitley wondered to himself.

"We are your new security team." Marrow told the Schnee.

Whitley blinked and confusedly asked, "Come again?"

"We're your new bodyguards, Mr. Schnee." Marrow said, wondering why the boy would be so confused.

Having heard the boy's reply, Stane turned to Rhodey and inquired, "You did tell him that they were coming too, right?"

Rhodey replied, "I only told him that people were coming. I didn't say how many or who they were. He would have been quite... _open_ with his feelings regarding the decision."

Obadiah nodded at that, knowing full well the boy's feelings regarding hunters. They tuned back into the conversation between Whitley and his new protection detail.

The Schnee rose up and complained, "No-no-no-nope! I don't recall hiring any more bodyguards... and I don't need any more, thank you very much. I'm quite pleased with the one that I already have."

Marrow quickly replied, "Ah, yes, Mr. Hogan. I had actually spoken with him yesterday, and he agreed to this. He may be a trained boxer, but he agreed that there are a lot of threats that require Aura and a semblance."

The very stubborn Whitley replied, "Yeah, well... Who says I'm not safe now? I'm hidden away from the public eye, living with a trusted family friend with military training, and I... uh... look, this isn't really necessary, you're just wasting your time."

Flynt snorted and muttered under his breath, "He's not wrong about that last part..."

Neon promptly slapped her hand against his arm for that comment. She knew that he was better than saying such petty things. Besides, riling people up was her thing.

The Schnee continued on, "Look, I'm sorry that you came all the way out here, I really am, but the fact is that I don't need a security team. So, whoever sent you, tell them I appreciate the concern, but they're-"

"Your father sent for us." Marrow told the boy, which caused him to halt in his speech.

Seconds passed as the Schnee stood there silently, as though his mind had suddenly short-circuited. Everyone within the room were concerned that the boy had become catatonic, even Flynt. The Schnee found his voice again as he stuttered, "F-F-Father s-sent you..."

The boy, in denial, started to shake and thought aloud, "No way, there is no way he was the one who hired you. I mean, why would he show any concern after everything that's happened? Unless, of course..." His trailed off before his face contorted in barely controlled anger.

"Unless this is his way of keeping _tabs_ on me," Whitley grounded out, "Oh, I get it now! No, this is just _classic_ Jacques Schnee right here! _Hey, son, I'm gonna give you all the space you need, but I'm gonna send a bunch of strangers to keep an eye on you!_ Ugh, this is just another one of his mind games, isn't it? Well, you three can just ship off to Atlas and tell the old man that he can rightfully go FU-"

"Whitley Schnee, enough of this!" Rhodey snapped, disappointed by the boy's tantrum, "Everyone agreed to this, you don't need to like it, but these people are here to protect you!"

Whitley clicked his tongue and retorted, "Whatever! I don't need this right now! I thought today was going to be a great day, but then this happened!"

The boy promptly stormed his way past everyone, outraged and a little betrayed. As he stomped up the stairs, Rhodey called out, "And where do you think you're going, young man!"

"I'm going to my room!" Whitley shouted in rage, "You want these people protecting something? Tell them to guard my door!"

The sound of heavy footsteps was heard as the boy stomped his way through the second floor hallway. The stomping was soon followed by audible slamming of a bedroom door. The seven people remaining in the living room were silent as they recovered from the tense scene. An awkward silence settled which only heightened the discomfort among those within the room. No one said anything.

The silence was broken by Marrow, who asked, "I, uh, take it that I pressed one of his buttons, didn't I?"

Rhodey told the Faunus, "Yeah. His father is a bit of a touchy subject for him; specifically, his father meddling in his life."

"Isn't that what all parents do?" Neon asked, somewhat confused by the statement.

"Ms. Katt, trust me when I say this, but it's a lot more complicated than that." Rhodey answered.

"So he hates his dad?" Flynt rhetorically asked, "I don't blame him."

"Flynt..." Neon groaned at the boy for his insensitive comment.

The young man retorted, "What? We all know the guy's a jerk!"

The huntsman-in-training looked to the bald businessman and said, "No offense."

"I'm not disagreeing with you there, son. So, none taken," The man shrugged before he turned to his children, "Whitney, go check on Whitley. I've got important things to discuss with our new friends and Mr. Rhodes."

"Yes, father." His daughter acquiesced with a nod. She promptly made her way up the stairs, toward Whitley's room.

Zeke, unable to ascend the stairs, simply shrugged and said, "Eh, I'll just get a drink from the kitchen."

The young man wheeled his chair away from the group, heading down the hallway to his destination. Once he was out of sight, Rhodey addressed his guests, "Alright, now let's take this discussion to my office. We'll find some privacy in there."

With that said, the Shopkeeper led the billionaire and the hunters led away from the living room. As he led the tour, he couldn't help but worry about Whitley. He can only hope the boy's nerves will settle after some time in his room.

* * *

As he sat on his bed, the young genius let out a deep breath. His little display in the living room was quite possibly the best performance of his life. Of course, he was positively livid at what his father had done. He had come to Mantle to get out from under Father's thumb in Atlas, but apparently the man saw fit to press it further down into Mantle. He supposed he was a little naïve to think his father would leave him alone.

Still, he never imagined that he'd sent a team of hunters to protect, given his particular distaste for the profession. Though Whitley doubted the man knew that said team had two Faunus in their ranks. Jacques Schnee would never have allowed such a thing, placing his son under the protection of two members of the race he held in contempt. But Whitley was not his father. He was not going to let his father's prejudices influence his life, never again.

As for these Hunters, Whitley can honestly say that his feelings were ambivalent. He didn't know them, and they didn't know him. But he knew what they thought of him. In their eyes, he was just another privileged punk who thinks he's entitled to everything. But he can admit that he was like that once, until recent circumstances forced him to reevaluate his life. He can only hope that they'll eventually see him for who he truly was. He will be civil with them, but he had no intentions of becoming friends with them.

 _ **Knock-Knock!**_

The rapping against his door broke him from his train of thought. He turned to the door and said, "It's unlocked."

The door slowly swung inward, allowing Whitney Stane entrance into the boy's room. The blonde stepped into the room, her grey eyes observing the décor. Once finished with her appraisal, she looked to her old friend and told him, "It's a small room."

"Yeah, it's, uh, it's not what I'm used to, but I like it." The Schnee replied, "I was thinking of putting a TV on top of that dresser over there."

"It could work. Still, you could put more your personal touch into this room. It feels like I'm standing in a stranger's room." She remarked as she took a seat on a swiveling chair.

Whitley sighed and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "That's an accurate assessment. Sometimes, I feel like a stranger to myself, after everything."

He then said, "I'm sorry for blowing up like that. It's just, well..."

"Whitley, it's all right. Even I think this is a pretty low blow, even for your father. You came here to heal, not to be surveilled like some mental patient." She said, clasping her hands together.

"But still, you shouldn't antagonize the hunters downstairs. They didn't ask to be here, and I'm pretty sure they don't even want to be here. They're here on a job, and you can't blame them for that."

"I know, I know... it's just... look, it's complicated, okay."

Silence settled between the two friends. Whitley had no idea what to say to the girl without revealing even a quarter of his secret. He didn't know how she'd react if she learned he had just started moonlighting as an armored vigilante. Of course, he was more wary of the hunters discovering his secret. He may have to trust them with his life, but not with his secret. For all he knew, if they found out he was Iron Man, they'd just turn him over to Ironwood.

He looked at the girl sitting before him. She was sitting there quietly, minding her own business, just waiting for him to say something. He thought of possible subjects to discuss with her. He considered asking for opinion on his new bodyguards, but decided against it. He was more than aware of the girl's uneasiness around Faunus, which he hoped she'll grow out of. He then entertained the idea of discussing her plans for the rest of the year, but he knew she planned on attending public school in the fall. Finally, he settled on asking about her family's vacation to Anima. He asked her, "So, how was your vacation?"

The girl's face lit up as she smiled. She told him, "We stayed at my grandfather's villa in Big Wind."

"How is Luchino, anyway?" He asked, wanting to know how he was holding up.

She smiled softly and spoke, "He's been getting better. After Mom died, he sort of shut down, but he's starting to open up. He even helped me with my recovery."

 _Recovery... That's something I wouldn't mind doing._ The boy solemnly thought.

For a moment, he considered asking her of things would ever get easier when dealing with trauma. He decided against it. He'd rather listen to her talk about her vacation than unload all of his issues to her.

* * *

"So, you basically want us to monitor his mental health too?" An incredulous Marrow asked.

"Nothing like that, I just need you to keep the boy from doing anything impulsive. One can never predict the behavior of traumatized youth." Stane explained as he stood next to the bookcase.

Rhodey sat at his desk, his hands clasped together as he discussed plans regarding Whitley's security detail. As the boy's guardian, he had just as much a part to play in his protection. But as the adults conversed amongst themselves, Neon and Flynt sat on a couch adjacent to the bookcase, observing the discussion. They had nothing to contribute to the planning, as this was their first bodyguard assignment.

And since they had nothing to say, they were bored. Being teenagers, they've yet to mature to the point where they can sit in silence for minutes on end without succumbing to boredom. Neon was tapping her right foot vigorously, something she only did when she started losing her patience. Flynt had his arms crossed, the fingers of his right hand tapping his left elbow. He leaned next to his friend and whispered, "If they're not gonna let us join in, then why did they make us come in here?"

Neon shrugged, "Dunno. But I'm going stir-crazy sitting here. We we're in that limo for nearly an hour, Flynt, I gotta stretch my legs."

"I hear you. But won't it be a little rude to just leave the room?" He asked.

"Not if we can come up with a good enough reason." She answered.

That was when Flynt got an idea. They needed a reason to get out of this room. So why not make up one that pertained to the mission? He smirked and cleared his throat. He looked to Neon and winked. The girl, realizing what her partner was planning, gave a toothy grin and an encouraging nod. That was all the encouragement he needed

He rose from where he sat and coughed into his fist, gaining the attention of all three adults. He then spoke, "With your permission, Corporal Amin, my partner and I would like to tour the apartment. As we are no doubt going to spend much of our time here, it would be wise to familiarize ourselves with the building."

Marrow pursed his lips in and scrunched his brow in deep thought. After a brief moment, he told the teens, "Good idea. You have my permission."

"Thank you, sir." Flynt replied with a salute, with Neon joining in.

The students calmly strolled to the door and exited the office. Now standing in the living room, the two teens took a collective deep breath and relaxed their postures. Neon said to her friend, "Oh, It feels so good to be up and about again."

"Tell me about it." He replied as he stretched his arms. "Still, we do need know more about this place. It might help us in the long run."

"And I know what room we should start with... the kitchen!" Neon excitedly decreed. "Let's go see what Zeke found in the fridge. I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."

Flynt nodded in agreement, sharing the sentiment. Their minds made up, the two teenaged hunters-in-training set off for the kitchen. As they recalled, it was further down the first floor hallway. They entered the hallway, but just as they were about to turn a corner, they saw Whitney and their new client descending down the stairs. The four teens stopped dead in their tracks and gazed at each other.

Whitney, feeling that her friend could use some time getting to know his new bodyguards, spoke up, "I'm gonna head on down to the kitchen. Plus, I got to make sure Zeke didn't eat any of Mr. Rhode's desserts. I'll see you three there."

She quickly made her way down the stairs, walking past the two hunters. Neither noticed the faint blush on her cheeks after she walked past Flynt, nor the very small smile on her face. The three stragglers stared at one another, wondering who should speak first. Ultimately, it would be Whitley who found his voice, when he addressed the two, "So, first off, I want to apologize for exploding like that."

Flynt said nothing as he eyed the boy with a skeptical gaze. Whitley noticed this and bluntly asked, "You don't like me, do you?"

"Not really, no." Flynt replied, keeping his response short.

The genius sighed and said, "Well, at you're honest about it."

He turned his attention onto the Orangette and asked, "And what about you?"

Neon shrugged and replied, "Don't know you, so I don't have a problem... unless you give me one."

Whitley responded with a relenting tone, "That's fair."

He then told the two, "Look, I know neither of you asked to be here. In fact, I'm not too thrilled at the prospect of sharing my space with a bunch of hunters. But Whitney convinced me to give you two a chance, so let's start over. Hello, my name is Whitley Schnee."

He leaned over the railing and lowered his hand to his fellow teens for a handshake. Flynt eyed the hand for a moment, before shrugging it off with a scoff. He then walked away, leaving his partner and the Schnee with each other. Whitley frowned as he watched Flynt's retreating form, only to be surprised when he felt the girl grasp his hand with her own. He looked at hear and saw that she had a wide smile on her face.

She then said to him, "Neon Katt, pleased to meetcha!"

She shook his hand, and then promptly strolled toward the bathroom with a skip in her step. Whitley blinked a few times as she stared at her in bewilderment. With a smile, he thought aloud, "Strange girl... But she seems nice."

And so Whitley Schnee finished his descent down the stairs and began his walk toward the kitchen. He wondered about the two teens that would be protecting him. He can understand why Mr. Amin was sent, but why, of all people, did the General send assign these two?

Within the span of one day, Whitley Schnee had had been given far too many conundrums to even solve. What had his grandmother been hiding? What was his father planning with this little bodyguard scheme? And what, pray tell, was he going to do to keep his new acquaintances from finding out his own secret?

He hadn't the slightest idea. He can only hope that nothing else came up to worsen his already confusing day.

A soft vibration in his pants pocket stopped him in his tracks. Reaching inside, he pulled out his scroll. Someone was trying to call him. He pressed his thumb on the screen, unlocking the device. When he saw the caller's identification, his breath hitched and his eyes widened.

"Winter..." He breathed.

As the Scroll vibrated, his thumb hovered over the screen, sliding between the green and red circles. If he pressed green, the call will go through. If he pressed red, the call will end. He took a deep breath, considered his options, and made his decision.

He pressed the red button. He then turned his scroll off and returned it to his pocket.

While he may be willing to associate with his new bodyguards, his sister was a whole other story. What exactly can he say to her that doesn't involve him shoving years of resentment and anger into his words? Nothing, he convinced himself, there was nothing that he can say to her. No, he had nothing to say to her. If she was so concerned about him, then she should have traveled to Rhodey's and say whatever it she needed to say to his face. In fact, why did she even bother calling him now, after spending close to six years ignoring him?

 _I don't need her fake sympathy!_ He mentally seethed in rage.

With his mood now worse than ever, he paced and calmed himself. He breathed in and out, counted to ten, and imagined his happy place. He had far more pressing matters to attend, such as making sure Zeke didn't hog any of Rhodey's home-made sweets for himself.

Now once more in a calm state of mind, the young Schnee continued on his way to the kitchen.

But as he walked, he couldn't help but shake the feeling that his life going to get even more complicated.

* * *

 **FINALLY! AFTER LONG LAST, THE OTHER TWO MAIN CHARACTERS HAVE MADE THEIR APPEARANCE!**

 **It's been a long time coming, but they've finally showed up. I hope I was able to write their characters well, and I can't wait to see how they grow as well. I plan on having some chapters that are dedicated solely to them and the other main characters. The other two main characters, Penny and Ceil, will soon make their appearance. Oh, and we'll also get to know their families. Now, don't start hating on Flynt. He was just as dismissive of Weiss in the original show, until she proved herself to him. Unlike her, however, it's going to take a lot longer with Whitley. As for Neon, well, she's already made a good impression on Whitley. Their relationship can only grow from there.**

 **I will be hard at work on the next chapter, but I'm still looking for a job.**

 **Next time, on the Invincible Whitley Schnee:**

 **Chapter 11: Off the Rails!**

 **Thank you all for reading. I send nothing but love to all of you, and please stay safe and healthy.**


End file.
